MOSAICS: A Generation Reborn
by AvianInk
Summary: Coloring in between the space between Avengers and Age of Ultron, where Bruce and Natasha grow closer, into something more. Origins of the lullaby.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** Real talk for a moment - obviously, I adore the relationship between Bruce and Natasha. I would (and often do) defend it to the ends of the MCU and back. One of the complaints I hear most often is that Brucenat was "sudden" (to which I say: watch the first Avengers again). Where did the lullaby come from? When did they start liking each other? Thus, here is this fic - my suggestion as to one of the many, many ways Bruce and Natasha could've fallen for one another. Take it or leave it, but if you choose to read, I do hope you enjoy!

A heads-up, the beginning is Bruce-centric, but worry not. Natasha comes in soon and starts being the BAMF she is. :)

* * *

Every couple months, newspaper headlines hook onto the names of familiar companions. Even without a devised method of data collection, Bruce has gleaned a few of his friends' patterns in the myopic realm of media.

Economics magazines have all but anointed Tony Stark as their god by now, which his ego undoubtedly adores. American spreads pump ever more red, white, and blue inspiration into the minds of young men and women by plastering Steve across multi-page articles and detachable posters. Clint and Thor manage to maintain a higher level of elusiveness, but even they are not immune to the flash of a reporter ambush. The only one among them who rivals Bruce for digital and public secrecy is Natasha.

In the beginning, when the masses were still intoxicated off fresh triumph, one journal had captured her — no interview, a blurb full of hyperbolic, journalistic speculation, and a blurry photograph. Since cruising off in the passenger seat of Clint's car, both of them had become preoccupied with keeping a low profile.

If anything, he figured she would employ S.H.I.E.L.D's resources to establish a sound cover. There's a jab of surprise when a summon arrives from S.H.I.E.L.D and there's no mention of her. Although, they wouldn't reveal more information than necessary, and barely even that, in a one page letter (nor would they reveal how, exactly, they were able to pinpoint his location). That is, at least, what he tells the sinking rock in his gut.

Though the note claims to "request" his presence, its sheer existence in this unmarked hovel — nestled in the rampant hills of Mongolia — stands as a testament to their need, dedication, and unspoken refusal to accept his potential denial. One mission with them means a lifetime contract, it seems.

Hence, per the curt instructions detailed on his summoning, he abandons the three room compound he has rented from a family comprised of a widowed mother and her daughter. An undeniable benefit of his vaguely nonconsensual association with S.H.I.E.L.D is the financial resources; it means he can afford to leave the proprietor with an advance on the months he will no longer stay, in conjunction with a carved horse for the daughter who strives to overlook the Mongolia-China boundary from horseback, atop a mountain.

His emergence from isolation begins in the backseat of a man's car, whose dung-scented dog occupies the much roomier seat ahead of Bruce. It's evident by the crusted flakes of darker-and-dirtier than chocolate brown that this animal has recently spent too much time near the rear ends of horses. While Mongolia has provided uninterrupted respite, he will not miss the occasional proximity to humid horse stench. As his navigator traverses road, barren of signs and any apparent speed limit, he wonders if his acquired ability to distinguish between bovine, equine, and camel manure makes him a "worldly" traveller. Either way, that is not a skill he is eager to boast about.

In an effort to distract from the humid atmosphere of waste, he devotes his unwavering gaze to the sweeping valleys and jagged uplift of juvenile mountains.

This wild expanse contains limitless escape plans. Every junction in the rocky skyline holds a hundred places to hide, thousands of rocks to take shelter under, and perhaps a few dozen caves, unlit and unmarked for decades upon potential centuries. These swooping, uncarved lands are home to countless unknowns colored in every shade from brown to gray.

Of course, in an overly industrialized world, such natural magnificence cannot roam for too long uninterrupted. Even here, town punctures through the uncalloused soil after about ninety minutes of travel by car. A putrid hissing from the back end of the dog and brief struggle with the driver's trunk — all for the reward of his sole bag of possessions — punctuates his re-entrance into contemporary technology's civilization. His retrieval comes at the cost of a healthy chunk of tugrik and his journey with the driver concludes with an uneventful thanks before the car sputters off, gaseous, manure-scented dog and all.

One cramped car ride down, one train trip to go.

What he adores about the Mongolian plains leaves no trace within the city that has risen from the ground. Isolation holds a different texture in crowded streets, and it tastes lonely. Between high-rise buildings that beckon the heavens, a cacophony of bleating car horns and furious bike bells, and the civilized stampede of quotidian, anthropologic activity, there is no room or reason to speculate on the impact of his existence. He's grateful for camouflage, but, admittedly, it is a more seamless serenity in the vacancy of the sparsely inhabited.

In any case, S.H.I.E.L.D continues to prove him that, no matter the size of the crowds or how far off the grid he goes, blending in and fading out of the public eye, fading out of the past attached to this persona, is impossible. For the second time this month, this epiphany smacks his gut into the soles of his feet when an agent approaches him outside the train station.

He bears no identification; the only indicator of his affiliation is the appointed confidence in his long strides. This may be Phil's replacement, after a few months now. It seems S.H.I.E.L.D is progressing into its next phase, and they're determined to take Bruce with them.

"Doctor Banner," the fellow says, a courteous nod offered. His baby boy blonde hair is completely cropped by a close shave. There's probably more hair in his strictly trimmed beard and mustache combo. The light blue of his eyes are shallow — a highly calculated and trained hue that resembles the dye used to manufacture workplace ties. It's evident from his sturdy triangle shape and unyielding rigidity in his flat line shoulders that this man was likely plucked from the top ranks of some division in the U.S. army.

To confirm his own identity, Bruce returns the nod.

"I'm Asher Jung. I'll be escorting you to our transport." His phrasing is monotone, rehearsed — careful to not insinuate the organization's inherent distrust of the Hulk, which is what he is to them first and foremost.

With no other choice, Bruce acquiesces to the agent, "Lead the way."

Agent Jung accepts his obedience and launches them into a trek across the town, away from the train ride Bruce had planned for. They surge onward at a pace that requires him to almost jog. The agent splits the crowds ahead, shifting women to the side with a brush of his hand and nearly trampling a few dogs — some leashed, others not — who didn't know to stay out of his path. To those who stop in the middle of the sidewalk, clutching their lunches and bags bewildered, Bruce murmurs passing apologies. As far as speaking goes, those sentiments are the only conversation that takes place between them until they diverge down a wide alley, where a black car awaits.

As soon as doors slam shut, closing out intruding ears and muffling industrial dissonance, the army agent starts debriefing. "We appreciate your cooperation, doctor. I'm afraid we have a situation that requires your skillset as a scientist."

Bitter sass tickles the tip of his tongue, which he presses into the backs of his teeth so his remarks remained contained. This man is an unexplored variable nested within his familiar terrain. It is Bruce who is out of his element here, having already succumbed to their summons. He resigned himself to ambivalent silence.

With nothing to interrupt Agent Jung as their driver navigates midday traffic, he continues, "There has been a controlled outbreak of a genetic mutation among young adults. Our estimates have about 75 to 100 infected — judging by news reports and an upsurge in some minor disasters. None affected have been over the age of twenty-five. It could be lower, could be higher."

The agent checks his attentiveness with a cursory glance. Any assumptions this man has probably colors Bruce in one dimension. News of some outbreak must be scientific candy to geek like him, right? What are the odds he'll be scrutinizing S.H.I.E.L.D's intentions here?

Quite good, actually. As qualified as Agent Jung undoubtedly is, his freshness within the rigid hierarchy of S.H.I.E.L.D serves him a disadvantage here. There's dozens of reasons tied in the lattice of covert organization bureaucracy that steer Bruce away from regular workings within this group, and this pawn likely knows little to none of that.

While this agent lectures, he is absolutely calculating possible motivations here. This explanation delivered to him sounds more like a spiel for a news camera. Naturally they would want to employ their nerdy mutant ally to investigate this all-too relevant issue.

Completely oblivious to these skeptical innerworkings, Jung goes on, "The youngest of record was a seven year old in Ghana. He died before S.H.I.E.L.D agents could extract him."

The back of Bruce's neck bristles at that; his fingers twist into knots and he diverts his gaze to the sandy city blur out the window.

"Currently, we have two mutants in our custody. They're older — eighteen and twenty-two. They surrendered themselves over to us in southern Africa. The girl's Lenora, South African, and the boy is either Ethiopian or Ghanan."

There's a big difference there, he remarks to himself. Rude or dismissive as it may seem, turning away from the window to reveal his expression now posed a risk of inciting suspicion.

"Our lab technicians have only been able to discern so much about the mutations. The properties manifest differently in the two," Jung explains to the back of Bruce's skull. "And it's also difficult to pin Lenora down long enough to collect a blood sample."

At that rather dubious statement, Bruce pivots so his full skepticism and curiosity is on display. Let the man suspect him; if S.H.I.E.L.D's hoping he'll use the Hulk to restrain someone and simultaneously draw blood, their investment in him has been an utter waste.

Agent Jung provides a curt, facetious explanation, "You'll understand if you ever piss her off."

As if that justifies hogtying someone like a rogue bull. This guy seems amused by it — the idea of her resistance — because he chuckles a bit, as though he and Bruce are sharing a manly moment, laughing at feminine strength. Clearly, this man has never encountered Natasha Romanoff.

Bruce doesn't laugh.

The overly masculine smirk falls. Back to business. "Not only are you advanced in your abilities here, doctor, but you also—"

"Have the Hulk?" He cuts in, his question posed as an accusation.

Shamelessly, Jung acknowledges, "Well, yes."

With that admitted, he snaps his gaze back to the blurs outside the window.

"We have to figure out how this is happening, why it's happening, and how to put an end to it." Jung says — as if that justifies everything.

There the conversation dies. That's all the information he gets, and it's all he wants. Anything else, he'll figure out for himself, without restraining anyone, without the "assistance" of the green guy. He may have succumbed to S.H.I.E.L.D's will — and, unfortunately, the bidding of Agent Jung — but he won't be a monster for hire.

Silence eats away at the remaining hours of their car ride. In his mind, Bruce utters a farewell ode to the country and hospitality of the mother and daughter who provided him with shelter from forces like Agent Jung, even if it was only temporary.

Without any familiar faces, the monolithic aircraft is a hollow, metal construction with monotone halls that lead to barracks and meeting rooms devoted to the tedious — the architecture of loneliness. This is a smaller model than a typical Helicarrier, employed for missions demanding stealth, or a lack of priority. Considering the gravity emphasized by Agent Jung, he can easily deduce the latter does not hold validity.

* * *

His boarding is uneventful — unnoticed, even. The primary concern is not their new passenger, but disembarking back into the above. That's more than fine with him; he's never required anything lavish, nothing like a celebrated hero's homecoming. As he told Jung, he is content with finding his lab, bed, and the mess hall. Not because they are dull or unsavory people, but, by his inherent nature, he is not thrilled about incorporating himself with the social circles of S.H.I.E.L.D agents and engineers.

Bruce is simply honored to enjoy the escort of Agent Jung to his facilities. Outside of the city and car, they are tucked away from raw sunshine as hastily as possible. A uniformed duo swarms their commander, accompanying them through operation centers and prismatic halls with a slew of reports that inspired them to speak seven words a second. As they cross into narrower sections of the craft, Bruce falls behind to accommodate for the man and woman. By the time they have woven through the aircraft's digestive system to his lab, those two demonstrate no signs of concluding their accounts anytime soon.

Awaiting is another gentleman, this one of a shorter stature, pecan-hued skin and swooped hair, pulled and pinned into an army-acceptable 180 degree posture.

A single palm, raised to all in the room, quells the talking. "Doctor Banner, you lab. Your quarters are on the floor below." Jung turns to the man fixed between a fume hood and a large, suspended monitor. "This is Agent Jones. He's tasked with the supervision of the mutants. So, seeing as they're not here, I'm not sure why he has abandoned his post."

To his own defense, Jones insist, "They're in their rooms, sir. Lenora had an incident this morning—"

"There's always an incident with her," Jung fires back. "Why are you here?"

Some of the steel flakes off his rigid spine. "Sir. I wanted to welcome Doctor Banner, since he'll be working — ah, assisting with Lenora and—"

"If you deemed doorman courtesies more important than your post, I can have Marquez or Ford take over."

Stoicism gave way to a silhouette of submission beneath his cheeks. "That won't be necessary, sir."

Agents Ford and Marquez utter nothing, don't even dare to breathe loudly and incur the subdued wrath of their commander. They beat Jones with statue stares while Bruce stands to the side, caught in the middle.

"It's nice to meet you." Bruce directs toward the defeated. It tumbles out of his mouth clumsily, not as bold or resistant as he intended. Craven as he is, his moral code won't tolerate another subject of Jung's intimidation tactics.

Defiance is treachery to the commander. He gores Bruce with the horns of an unabashed glare, ordering to his subordinate in the meanwhile, "Since you're intent on groveling to the doctor, you can personally escort him and his things to his room." Blow to Jones' pride delivered, he spins and strides out of the lab with his two-person entourage. Over his shoulder, he calls, "We'll be docking in Madagascar tomorrow. There's a meeting at 0600, Doctor Banner." His name is warped into a quiet assertion of Jones' inferior rank, which does not clear him for such bureaucratic meetings apparently.

Once the mechanic glass doors snap shut, they are alone, afforded the comfort of a free conversation.

The first thing out of the agent's mouth: "I'm sorry, doctor. I really did—"

Bruce stammers to cut off the unnecessary apologies, but immediately traps his interception on his tongue. At the softest "um," Jones' jaw has glued shut, whatever input he had tossed into a garbage compressor. Wordless, Bruce extends a hand that urges him to continue. "I meant no trouble, sir. I wanted to meet the doctor I'd be working with."

"That's understandable." Bruce agrees, "Since we'll be working together, call me Bruce." He doesn't want to be another title, another rank this guy has to memorize.

Jones blinks slow as if Bruce spontaneously switched to speaking Mandarin and expected him to respond. It would seem the suggestion causes a malfunction in the agent. While he processes, maybe reboots, he peers around at the new tech available to him. Aside from intrigue and curiosity sated only by experimentation, a wisp of a wonder spirals through his mind: how many of his new gadgets were supplied by Stark industries?

They're allowed three, perhaps four minutes of hush before a single metal door in the rear corner of the lab bursts open.

"I knew it!" An artificial redhead exclaims as an announcement of her presence. "For someone who works in a top secret agency, you have a shit poker face," she snaps at Jones, breezing by him and planting herself right before Bruce. A simply dressed fellow tags along behind her, passing Jones with a ginger brush of his fingers on the agent's shoulders. Fists planted on her hips, she triumphantly states, "Who are you?"

Her friend stifles a snicker. Bruce is unabashedly taken aback, tilted off his composure. "Ah, I'm Doctor Banner."

"Oh!" The girl, presumably Lenora, turns to the boy, "The green guy!"

To the sinking in his gut, he asks, Did you really expect any better?

Jones sputters, "How — how do you know that?"

She waggles taunting fingers at him. "Vibrations, remember?" When her head whips back around, the shaved brunette roots beneath her bottle red hair are revealed.

"Doctor Banner, I'm sorry. This is Lenora and —"

"We can introduce ourselves, thank you." She beams at Bruce with all too much expectation glowing in her eyes. "I'm Lenora and this is Berhanu." Her chin gestures to her comrade, who stands taller than anyone else in the room. "If you don't try to manhandle me, you can call me Lena. Berhanu's just Berhanu."

On cue, the boy nods and extends an amicable palm. Bruce grips it for what he believes to be a handshake, but quickly morphs into the arm curling him into a hug. Face stuffed against Berhanu's chin and neck, his only view is of Lenora peeping at them with upturned cheeks.

"You're the guy they hired to deal with us — right?"

Muffled into skin, he responds in earnest, "I really don't know—"

She looks to Jones, "Right?"

"You seem to know all the answers," he retorts, none too pleased.

As he is released, she keeps talking — confirming to him and herself, "Right." To her friend, she rattles off a few curt sentences in what he thinks may be Amharic — he's not encountered it enough to be certain. Judging by the amount of "um"s and "ag"s with thoughtful mouth smacking, he'd surmise that she's a beginner to this language.

He inserts a comment between Berhanu's quick corrections of her grammar and pronunciation. "I got the impression that you didn't want any supervision. No offense, Jones."

The agent shakes his head quickly, as though to insist he would very much like to not supervise these kids.

The remarks elicits an eye roll from her. "Since we got on this thing, nobody has listened to us." She preaches to him as though he is a judge who just emerged into a jailhouse. "We surrendered ourselves — did Asher tell you that? We've wanted to help figure this out the whole time. But no, we're menaces that need to be locked up and babysat. Honestly, it's like we're circus animals."

With only raw truth, he tells her, "Yeah. I know a little about that." Jones refuses to make eye contact with anything except the floor. It's a reminder to practice caution when distributing his sympathies. "Do you...would you like to talk to someone who'd listen?"

"Agh!" Her arms are thrown up in a praising gesture. "Yes!"

"Alright." He swivels around, looking for chairs, tables, then starts sifting through drawers in search of supplies. It takes him multiple tries to produce syringes, needles, and sterilizing equipment. By the time he's done so, Lenora and Berhanu have perched themselves on a lab bench, while Agent Jones still devotes his concentration to the tiled floor. The kids meet him with skeptical stares, and that's when it strikes him — how odd and presumptuous he must seem, with nitrile gloves snapped on, armed with needles, vials, and other typical doctor's office tools. "Ah, sorry. Would you mind if I took blood samples while you talk? It's for my initial analysis."

Instead of a verbal response, the girl merely exposes her forearm, and Berhanu follows suit. Bruce's thanks is a smile.

"How? What?" Jones sputters, aghast. "You go rogue against half a platoon, but he just asks—"

"Exactly." Bruce turns his logic against him. "I asked."


	2. Chapter 2

Thank you for reading. Comments (I'm open to critiques, I want people to enjoy this story) are very appreciated and motivating, and I want to extend a special thanks to those who take the time to do so. People like you help keep writers happy, inspired, and writing!

* * *

Despite S.H.I.E.L.D's monetary canyon, which undoubtedly contains millions — if not billions — of dollars, the quarters provided on the aircraft could pass for a sterile prison cell. The unpainted steel of metal walls replaces the sunrise of a new day. A slim design prohibits a single window in any of the bedroom chambers; so, when Bruce awakens, it's solely him and the cobalt grey. One locker is the keeper of the bag of possessions he brought on this mission. Otherwise, S.H.I.E.L.D has not squandered any of their obscene finances on frivolous furnishings. At least they indulged him in procuring a decent mattress.

As he stretches off thin shrouds of sleep, the analog clock ticks at him. 5:56 AM.

The shock of panic is an instant shot of espresso. He scrambles out of the blanket tangle into the condensed bathroom, where his first order of business is to splash tepid water on the brown cotton ball sleep has mused out of his hair. A shower and breakfast will have to wait. In the dim, toothbrush and fluoride foam dangling from his mouth, he snatches clothes of a similar dark hue and exchanges his sleep apparel for those.

Some spitting, rinsing, and pants-leg jiggling and he's stumbling across the chrome sleek floors to the heavy door, which he slides open.

Sans bedhead and rather bright-eyed, Lenora and Berhanu await on the other side. The former individual is propped against a wall, while the boy is planted so close to the doorway that Bruce nearly collides with him.

"So-sorry," is the first thing that tumbles out.

"Change of plans, Doctor Banner." With her accent, the r in his name drops off. "No meeting. There's some rogue mutant in Ethiopia."

Not at all disappointed by the last minute cancellation, he comments, simple, semi-groggy, "Oh." Then, as his functioning brain catches up with his body, "How did you know I was here? Or that this is my room?"

Just like the day prior, she wiggles her fingers, ever so nonchalant, and says, "Vibrations." As if that's a proper explanation.

While maintaining rock-steady eye contact with Bruce, the other young adult rolls off a few sentences in his native tongue.

"Right. Don't need the cavalry coming after us." Lenora replied, propelling herself off the wall and down the metal plated hall.

Though he gestures for Berhanu to proceed before himself, the boy would not budge until Bruce trotted off after the lick of artificial scarlet strolling toward an undiscovered catastrophe.

* * *

"Glad you could join us, doctor." To refrain from hinting at any real bias, Jung keeps his tone winter morning cold.

At 0643, their descent from the horizon finishes and debriefing begins. Officers of high rank convene in a suspended room that overlooks the hangar, where soldiers organize themselves into formation, prepared with weapons from the armory. Among the cadet blue and grey uniforms, the two mutated adults are not difficult to spot, outfitted in casual wear. Everyone looks equipped to engage while they seemingly belong on a college campus.

Jung commands attention with a steady boom of a voice. Diagrams, manilla folders, and profiles decorate the war room table, obscuring S.H.I.E.L.D's emblem. "We received reports of a collapsed municipal building following an amber alert." He reports, hands clasped behind his back, stony expression unwavering. "Our subject disappeared at approximately 2300 hours last night. Parents reported an explosion in their home. She is an eleven year old African female — brown eyes, shaved head. There is a medium-sized scar above her left ear, crescent shaped. She was last seen wearing yellow Care Bear pajamas."

There is something hilariously wrong about the strict, no-nonsense commander mentioning the Care Bears so seriously. To veil a smirk, Bruce brought his fist to his mouth.

Void of humor, Jung concludes with a warning, "It's thought this mutant can manipulate the rate of erosion, so proceed carefully. Advise troops to exercise caution. And be swift. The longer the subject runs rampant, the more damage she does. Dismissed."

What a shame it would be if some terrified little girl caused damage to public property, Bruce comments to no one but himself. Even if he had the gall to give the thought a voice, it's doubtless anyone in the shifting mass of agents would pay him any heed. These higher-ranking officers head down to the hangar to prepare troops for combat against a child, and he turns to seek shelter in the tranquility of his lab.

It seems Jung holds other plans for him. "Doctor." The throngs of people part effortlessly to allow the commander's passage across the conference room. Meanwhile, the door only a few feet from Bruce eludes him. "We need you in the field."

Perhaps their car conversation and his reluctance had not enlightened this new leader. Though any assertive act incited risk, prodding the menace that lurked within the code of Jung's very being, Bruce takes the opportunity to clarify once and for all, "I'm not using the Hulk against a child." An unidentified uniform bumps squarely into his shoulder without notice of him or his statement.

Jung grins like he's peering down at a toddler that knows no better. "She may be a child, but she's not harmless." He inserts a pause long enough to allow stragglers to vacate the room.

Bruce trains his gaze on the backs of uniforms, his throat sore with regret. He should've allowed them to sweet him down their riptide. It seems he would've ended in the same place anyway.

Without an audience, Jung does not soften, but becomes stoic instead of coarse. "We need you to monitor the deviants."

'Deviants.' That's a new one. Bruce balances on a slim line with wielding bluntness as a tool of curiosity instead of a weapon of impatience. "Isn't that Jones' job?"

"Jones has proven himself to be an inadequate supervisor. In any case, he has informed me that the two mutants are fond of you."

Did the young agent relay this information in the form of a report or an act of juvenile revenge? As with most every case in this clandestine establishment, later analysis would be required.

Oblivious to these innerworkings and conclusions, though, Jung comments further, "They trust you."

They might trust Jones too, if he treated them like people. To give that thought volume, however, would assassinate his character within the agency. Instead, he refutes feebly, "I have their blood samples I can analyze them in the lab—"

"Doctor Banner — we haven't seen their mutations in action yet. We don't know that either of them are capable of, especially the boy."

Berhanu, Bruce supplies quietly.

"We need you there to watch them and report your findings back."

Exasperation breaks through in an emerald crackle. "And ensure they don't go rogue."

"That would help," he replies, as though Bruce had not posed the statement as a ludicrous concept.

Regardless of perception or intention, pathological deconstruction and genetic deciphering would have to wait until his spontaneous babysitting shift concluded.

* * *

The two young adults more than compensate for the enthusiasm he lacks. A dearth of S.H.I.E.L.D insignia and uniform makes them a motley trio. Every soldier has orders ingrained into their training. Their schedule, when and how they eat, sleep, speak is all dictated by command. Together, squadrons deploy from the hangar as it opens to the midday boiling heat. Gun attached to his torso, Jones marches out with his comrades in one of the first platoons out. Bruce, Lena, and Berhanu serve as their own commanders, walking out behind the blue swell.

The tidal wave of shaved heads and constricted buns disperses in square chunks down wide streets, around cars abandoned in the middle of intersections. Bruce attempts to relay the identity of the lost girl, but something unseen sparks a rant from Berhanu.

Under the giant whir of the idling aircraft, Lena hisses, "Slow down."

Never faltering with the smile rooted into his cheeks, Berhanu reduces speed to a teasing pace.

"Well I don't speak it fluently, alright?"

Bruce cuts in, "What's going on?"

Hesitation stalls her long enough for him to notice, to glance over and catch her stolen glimpse at her companion.

"He thinks he smells her. Over there." Her gesture directs them away from the main street into a conglomerate of squat, stone structures. "And gravity is being odd over there, so…"

The two juniors look to him for initiative. Him, who specialty is avoiding confrontation and admiring the restraint of pacifists. This duo needs Tony, Steve, or even Thor.

Nonetheless, those guys are absent, off existing in beautifully mundane civilization, preoccupied with normalcy. He is the one here, the one S.H.I.E.L.D recruited for this mission. This is now his decision.

"Lead the way," he says, making a conscious effort to avoid an air of self-doubt.

Lena knocks Berhanu forward, triumphant. "Let's go, yeah?"

They take off, chasing gravity. The problem: the girl they seek manipulates erosion, layers of sediment, and there were no reports of abnormal gravitational behaviors.

He follows at a jog, keeping a healthy distance. It's not that he doesn't have faith in what they're detecting. The doubt lies in who claims to perceive it.

At a decent pace, they duck away from marching, monitoring S.H.I.E.L.D personnel. The ranks track through destruction, but Bruce and the mutants have artificially enhanced senses on their side. Berhanu leads — smelling, Lenora claims — but more frequently pauses to touch a building, a metal post, then orients them. Flushed and swinging dampness from her untied hair, Lena tries to keep on his heels, panting off her fatigue. Every corner they turn, each stretch exposed to the arid morning sun makes Bruce regret not packing any shorts.

The farther they run, buildings start to change. Stone becomes wood, painted in vibrant turquoise, oranges, and yellows. An average of two stories diminishes to one, and more unwarned faces occupy the sand dust roads.

They stop on the porch of a long, white building topped by a roof with mismatching red patches. Unlike several other structures, glass guards the holes which windows occupy. Here, there are no squealing children, idling adults, no lights flicked on. The windows are closed, glowering at the outside sunshine.

Berhanu flattens both palms against the frame of an entryway with a door propped open with a rock. Lena drops to the ground, using her knuckles to support herself like a crouched chimpanzee.

"Yeah, she's here." Lena confirms in an exhale. "B, you should go in."

For approval, he looks, once again, to Bruce. Log alone presents no reason for his protest, and personal curiosity provides a motive for wanting to talk to one of the two alone — even if this isn't an ideal time. S.H.I.E.L.D's smothering security doesn't touch these lands, though.

So Bruce nods, and Berhanu takes the cue to slip in.

Cautious footsteps echo on porcelain tile, bouncing away from the entrance toward the room's center, where the reverberations cease.

In the molded stillness, Bruce seizes the chance to utter his wonder, "Is Berhanu in there because he's the one who senses frequencies?"

Stray pebbles crunch under Lenora's shoes as she eases upward. A rose blush unaccredited to heat or running fatigue stains the rims of her ears. Inside the structure, there's a simple call, what could be a greeting or a warning. A peal of squealed laughter ripples through the town street.

She does not turn to respond. "We need to know we can trust you."

"So you started by lying to me."

A door slams in the distance. The sun grows in power, trying to glare into the shadows that shelter them. Again, volume constant, Berhanu repeats himself.

"We're lying to everyone. Don't take it personally." In a swift step, she turns and crosses to the other side of the door, opposing him. Berhanu coaxes the unseen with short, chipper beckons in his native language. "He wanted to tell you, though."

"I'm not here to treat you like experiments," he implores, restraining the bubbling in his gut, the growl underneath his lungs. They've been treated like monsters, he reminds himself, appealing to empathy to defuse the trap of aggravation. "You're victims. I could find a way to help."

"And he believes you." Her retort comes with haste. The street laugher has ceased. Berhanu continues to coax. "But I'm not gonna let anyone hurt us. Not Jung, not the bastard who did this, not you."

That jabs at his own dormant beast. Anger simmers into outrage, winds its scalding ropes around his muscles and pushes, strains at layers of sunbaked peach skin. Tremors intrude on his breathing, and he must slow himself before an earthquake begins.

Wisely, Lenora takes a step back and tells him, "I need to know I can trust you."

In a whirlwind, she evaporates around a corner, as nonexistent as clouds in today's sky. He inhales warmth through his nostrils, down his lungs, into the bottom of his diaphragm. His chest and ribcage open, then clamp shut on the tyrant too eager to emerge. It's a temporary measure — always awaiting the next transformation — but should permit him long enough to chase her down.

After skid marks in dirt and a lick of red hair, he chases and calls, "Lena!"

From the back of the building, a yip responds, and out a streak of sandy white emerges. A blur zooms by him on four legs, no trace of crimson.

This was absolutely not in the job description. Then again, it never is with S.H.I.E.L.D.

With that at the forefront of his mind, he eases to a stop, long enough to roll his eyes, then doubles back.

It's not far, but the hyena has positioned itself at the mouth of the alley, panting and crouched to strike. Behind her, a gangly child secured in front of his chest, Berhanu dashes away from the encroaching silence that has overcome the local street.

"Berhanu!" He calls, slowing. The closer he nears, the louder the hyena growls.

The girl outfitted in jubilant yellow snaps her head toward his voice and releases a yelp followed by a warning tremor. He's not even green and he's still a monster to this child.

He stands down this new form of Lenora. "Lena, I don't want to hurt you or her." To demonstrate his pacifism, he tries to ease around her.

An eerily anthropomorphic howl smacks him in the gut, then she lunges, nipping at his dust-soaked pant legs.

"Lenora!" It's not himself who shouts; his mouth is merely a vessel for the menace that's been roused. Radioactive hatred tears the seams of his gut apart. The muscles in his back seize in a constant riptide, spurring a vortex of tension that twists his skin into pinching pain. Thorns sprout inside his lungs, along his ribs.

From beyond, where dangers lesser than what is within him lie, a command comes, "Stop him!"

Lena slinks away with a foreboding snarl, then flings herself into the middle of the street, right in the path of however many troops approach. A low buzz hums underneath the surface as boots stomp together, squashing the ground beneath them with a simultaneous crunch. This off-white and desert dirt hyena doesn't budge.

Some lieutenant, whose programming has replaced his critical thinking, bellows, "Take care of that, soldiers!"

A metal hammer bashes against the side of his skull, cracking Bruce away piece by piece until beast flesh swells through. Merciless fingers dig through his lobes, wrenching apart thoughts, cohesion, and sense in the hunt for him. Resisting an invasion, he collapses to his knees.

A firecracker pop thuds among the disarray of boots on gravel. Both entities within this one body knew, Gun.

Without instruction from either man or beast, Bruce's limbs dragged along dirt, pulling him forward through a humid shroud of soot. The buildings on either side could have fallen away, for a tunnel encloses around him. As he crawls, it feels as though he's entering a solar flare; it forms a pod and tugs him toward the crux of the primordial Sun. Every shuffle is a compromise with the ravenous green, fed by frustration, obstructed by concern — concern and years upon years of practice, failed trials, minor disasters — for a kindred creature.

Unsure of how far he's moved, a verbal exclamation shoots out automatically with his voice. "Hey!" Fire sears his tongue, snakes into his chest. Still, he crawls, he yells, "Hey!"

"Hold your fire!" A previous voice booms. Padded feet shift, kick up a dirt haze as they gallop away. "Jones — find and apprehend the mutants! Mercer — secure Doctor Banner."

No, Bruce thinks to the fools uneducated in his capability for terror. An earthquake rumbles through his bones from Hulk's growl. The tunnel of scorch silences both with a surge of flame that snuffs out their spark of consciousness.

* * *

Fewer than two dozen people on this planet have access to this phone. All of them S.H.I.E.L.D-affiliated, all numbers saved, all outside the reach of persistent telemarketers. The destruction of Asgard is more likely than an unknown, unauthorized number appearing on this screen.

Yet, here they are — device buzzing, digits instead of a contact name displayed. If Nick Fury distributed this number, he may find himself without his one functional eye.

A past of hiding off the grid, refusing to fly on the same radar as everyone else, insists against answering. The potential fallout that could result should the call go unheeded overrides the implanted instinct.

Breath more quiet than the country air, a hand draws the device upward, posed to listen. A beat passes. Overgrown grass rustles. From inside, a child yelps, then tiny footsteps thunder on wood. It's not loud enough for the receiver to detect.

"Agent Romanoff?"

A U.S. military standard voice emerges, clearly dictated, unnerved. Another beat.

"Agent Romanoff?"

Unsteadiness seeps in. Worry, dread, perhaps irritation — it doesn't matter. The stranger tries to suppress it, and almost does so without a hitch. It makes him a more skilled deceiver than other men, though still not nearly good enough to trick her.

Without confirmation, she asks her own question, "How did you get this number?"

"I was recruited by Agents Brenda Liu and Ali Elizabeth to work under Commander Maria Hill—"

"That's enough." S.H.I.E.L.D would have to purchase her a new phone — one that Maria wasn't privy to. That, unfortunately, did not change the fact that some operative had her on the line. "This is Agent Romanoff."

"I'm Asher Jung, deputy strategist for a special forces division—"

"An illegal division." What unbastardized fraction of S.H.I.E.L.D remained was to keep quiet, not engage with the public. This sounds like the opposite, and they want to rope her into it.

"According to the world's major political leaders, yes." He admits begrudgingly. "This division is operating out of concern for the global population's welfare."

Supposedly, something was always threatening the global population. It varied depending on who they asked. Only a minute fraction of those surveyed had any clue as to the actual menaces in this universe. But she'd listen to what this soldier boy had to say, see if he had any scrap of sense.

"Three weeks ago, we witnessed an influx of seemingly supernatural events in several countries. The individuals affected were all below the age of twenty five and, thus far, it appears that is the only commonality."

"What were these events?"

"We observed displays of superhuman abilities with high degrees of variability. Some observed phenomena included reports of X-ray vision, mutated photographic memory, voluntarily divided appendages, and so on."

He has her attention. "Strong kids."

"Um...yes." Pretending as though her comment were fiction, he continues, "We have two mutants in custody and Doctor Banner examining them. We had hoped the doctor's presence would placate our subjects, but it seems to have inspired the opposite."

Something in her chest freezes. Floodlight shines on an instance months ago, which inspires a phantom throb in her ankle, which has nearly completed its rehabilitation from the sprain. "Did Doctor Banner…"

"Hulk out?" He says it like an indirect taunt. "No. He refuses. So adamantly that he's currently unconscious. The mutants tried to provoke him." But Banner didn't transform; the agent fails to give him that credit. "Which is why my colleagues decided to contact you. These subjects refuse negotiation, Doctor Banner seems keen on research—"

"And you need me to make sure everyone behaves," she finishes, not without adding, "Because you can't keep your troops in order."

The voice on the other end inflates. Even not knowing what he looks like, she could see his posture straightening, chest puffing out. "I was trained to engage and orchestrate elite combat. I have more pressing matters than soothing some rowdy kids."

A small hum vibrates on her lips. "With all that training, you'd think keeping two kids under control would be easier." He attempts to smother the claim with excuses, but fails. She concludes the interaction cooly, "I'll report to Stark Tower in two days." Then her finger hits the red button that ends the call and seals her revised agenda for the upcoming weeks. She hopes Clint's kids won't be too torn up over her absence at dinner.

Unable to face the damp eyes and the pouts that come from the crack of disappointment, Natasha departs with the twilight. Clint's family goes to bed after Go Fish and painting with her in the spare bedroom and awaken to a note in her place.

* * *

Whether he goes green or not doesn't matter. Every time it arises, his body yearns for a quick hibernation. His confused physiology believes the mutation a virus and, as such, tries to sleep it off, sweat it out — both to no avail. That's how he awakens shuddering, damp from whole body perspiration, and needlessly paranoid. There's also muffled talking right outside his door, which is not a symptom of a narrow run in with the Hulk.

As quickly as his limbs allow, he tumbles out of the bed he'd unconsciously occupied, dust and rubble pinning worn fabric to his grimy skin. The air vessel's recycled oxygen collides with his bare arms in a stiff, stale front. The brief trek to the door reminds him of the elderly as they shuffled through a nursing home.

Flashbacks to past medical residencies dissipate when he shoves the door open to reveal Lena and Berhanu engaged in debate. In the same language.

Once the metal door collapses into the wall, Lenora drops her sentence midway through — child with her hand caught in the cookie jar Berhanu carries on, "You want another enemy?"

"He speaks English." Bruce says it like an accusation directed toward the younger girl.

Both guys look to her for an answer when she presses her lips shut, seals the truth in.

Berhanu responds when she refuses, "I do. I'm sorry we deceived you."

"How many things did you lie about?"

"Only that and our powers. To give us some security."

At that, Lena throws her hands up in exasperation.

You were arguing outside of my door, Bruce wants to point out against his better judgement. Instead, the need to know the motivation behind their rebellion in Ethiopia wins. "Did Jung tell you to provoke me?"

"D'you think he'd tell us anything?" She fires back, propped against the opposing wall.

Assuming the role of mediator, Berhanu clarifies, "We are tools to them, not people. But you are not them."

"I already told you — we needed to know if we could trust you." The statement shoots out like a bullet. Coming from her, though, it was more petulant, like a foam pellet from a toy gun.

Another question pushes him to disregard the brazen exclamation for now. "What happened to the girl?"

"I told her to run. I hope she got away," Berhanu says in earnest.

Bruce can't say he's disappointed, especially after his brief exposure to S.H.I.E.L.D's mutant treatment. Externally, however, he presents no opinion. Now, his attention turns back to Lenora — the hyena out of the duo. He could explode, lecture her, slam the door in both their faces, even report information on the child to those who would undoubtedly seek her out. But this isn't simply a rebellious teenager. She is the product of an irrevocably altered future. It would be crass if he denied his ability to sympathize with that. So he addresses her sincerely, "If you want my help, we work together, and you tell me the truth. I can't be useful if you lie to me." On that note, he also establishes, "I'm here as a scientist, not the Hulk. Don't provoke me." The "or else" goes unspoken.

Silence prevails for two, three beats, wherein both men stare in wait at her.

After hesitation on her part, Berhanu impatiently goads, "Lena—"

"Fine. Fine!" She exclaims finally, slumping down a bit. "But you have to promise you won't tell Jones or anyone."

"Unless they treat us as equal," Berhanu adds.

Without missing a note, she snorts, "They won't."

"What we discuss is confidential," Bruce promises. "I won't provide S.H.I.E.L.D with anything unless I have your consent."

Berhanu nods, looks to his cohort for kindred affirmation. One shoulder shrugs her approval. He expresses his gratitude, "Thank you, doctor."

These three, genuine words allow Bruce to breathe easier, though not freely.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** Posted a touch late due to car troubles, fatigue, and some extra editing (thank you to the reviewer for pointing out the vocab issue - it's something I struggle with perpetually and have to constantly work on).

Out of curiosity, do people like to connect with writers online? If so, via what platform - Twitter, Tumblr, Facebook, other? (My lack of social media savvy is showing)

Also, I want to express my immense gratitude to those of you who read and review. It's so wonderful to come back to and see people enjoying the story, or suggestions to make it better. I hope people continue to enjoy and that I can put out content that inspires that. Anyway, here's a Nat-heavy chapter for you all :)

* * *

Photographs akin to mugshots project to the front of this airborne conference room. First up is a teen who either uses her hair as a personality statement or doesn't know how to dye it to a natural color. Lenora Berel — a white female from South Africa, in control of receiving and manipulating vibrations and other frequencies. Jung dubs her as a problem, which likely means she refuses to acquiesce to him. That predisposes Natasha in her favor already.

Next, Berhanu Solomon. Information on him is noticeably sparse. What they know, and relay to her: African male, presumed to be Ethiopian since he surrendered himself there, non-English speaking, buzz-cut brown hair, and capable of changing into a hyena. Jung makes no additional comments on him before ending the presentation.

"Our goal here is to investigate their altered biology — which is why we recruited Doctor Banner — and, additionally, utilize them in our search for the perpetrators," Agent Liu, one of the task force's leaders, explains.

One of her colleagues contributes, "Additionally, we'll be researching ways to reverse or inactivate the mutations."

"But you won't have to worry about that," Jung says, smirking — as though it should relive her to not fret over the complex enigmas of science. Against the urge to glare, roll her eyes, Natasha keeps her expression as emotional as stone.

Cooly, though, she does note, "I'm here as a babysitter."

"To assist in the tracking and subdual of other mutants," a man beside Jung assures. It confirms her notion, _Babysitting_.

Tired of men inflated with authority, she switches to something off the agenda, something the people in this room hoped a trained spy and assassin would overlook. "Where's Doctor Banner in all this?"

Stares go to Jung. The pressure fails to make him flinch. "Still recovering from the incident in Ethiopia, I imagine."

 _You didn't tell him I was coming. You haven't checked on him since. Got it._

The remaining minutiae that drains out of Jung barely concerns her. The genuine details of her assignment wait outside this room.

* * *

Every attempt input into the digital lock receives a red flash and irritated chirp. Technology's betrayal unnerves her escort — a shorter man of straight edges, a square face, and fair complexion. All the high grade military training has not prepared him for such a mundane nuisance.

"Ah...this worked...yesterday." He stammers, jumping a little at another chirp.

Although none of the other attempts elicited any remarkable response, the latest try is met with a crude proclamation from within, "Fuck off!"

With no other information, Natasha identifies the voice.

"That's Lenora," Agent Jones notes, to which she replies in her head, _I know._

Brisk footsteps approach the sealed door. "I'm conducting medical examinations — you can't be in here." Bruce Banner's perpetually nervous voice emerges from the opposite side of the metal.

"I should have card access to this door. Doctor." The title is an afterthought in Jone's dismissal of Bruce's forewarning. "And the code should be—"

Lenora shouts over him, "We changed it. Get the hint?"

A mumble chastises her. The whole scene is quite the spectacle to witness.

Jones turns to Natasha, assures her, "I'll get a technician or something. I'm sorry about this Agent Ro—"

"That wouldn't be the wisest course of action," Bruce advises.

As Jones begins to protest, Natasha finally interferes, "I can wait somewhere else."

With one side on the verge of threatening him and a lack of interest from her, Jones resigns from the door, tucking his ID card into his standard issue uniform for safekeeping. Wordlessly, he guides her away from the lab down a quick series of turning hallways leading to another card-locked door. This time, when he digs his credentials out, the thin card slips out of his grasp like a wet bar of soap. During his fumble for it, Natasha produces her own ID and presses it to the appropriate position, triggering a jubilant, green blink.

Sheepish he stands, the likeness of himself in hand, and gestures to the hall's end. "These are the quarters for the mutants. Your rooms are separate, so you don't have to worry about…" He fails to conjure an example of a potential menace. "You don't have to worry. Your room is the third door."

No questions, she proceeds into the slate gray tunnel.

"Um, Agent Romanoff—" Jones calls after her, rooted outside this section of the aircraft. "You should probably leave this door open for now. The mutants are on lockdown until further notice. No one can leave without supervision right now."

They were locking her in with their wards. What a profound gesture of trust.

She quirks an eyebrow at him from over her shoulder. It doesn't take anything more to shoo him away, a gaping entrance and the echo of boots left in his wake. Isolation serves as better company while she waits, positioned between the first two doors, arms folded, legs eased into a relaxed stretch.

In the quietus of solitude, she analyzes, reviews what was given and what other agents omitted. Theories and half conclusions surface. When the hypothesizing withers due to the absence of confirmation or other input, a runaway though lands in a crack somewhere and flourishes. It spreads curious images of these past months for Bruce — what locations he beheld, the lives he touched, those he didn't. Seclusion was the one thing of which she could be certain. The way of a recluse frightened many, but others did not have to fear a literal beast within.

Out of sync shoes on metal bring her out of musing and into tangible reality. Natasha turns her chin to fixate on the spot where the hall's corner leads into this portion of the craft.

The two faces from her debriefing quickly surface. Lenora locks on her first, publicly declaring, "Who the hell?" Drastically uneven in height, the duo slows to a halt. "Did you off Jones?" She calls across the way, utterly shameless.

A genuine smirk surfaces, and Natasha allows it. "Think of it as a replacement," she returns, purposely vague.

The pair consult her, outfitted in everyday wear, then each other with a glance. Something's miscommunicated, because Lenora charges forward only to have Berhanu yank her back. While a children's quibble ensues, Natasha propels herself off the wall toward the cavern's metal mouth. She interrupts with a simple declaration. "I'm Natasha Romanoff." First name, last name. Bestow them with the trust associated with her identity.

Shaking off another's grip, Lenora comments. Without a pause to reflect, "Right. Is that supposed to scare us or…?"

Unoffended, she says, "It's just an introduction."

"Great." A sneer, a shrug, then Lenora brushes past her friend, past Natasha, and concludes the interaction with five quick beeps followed by the slam of top quality steel. For someone on lockdown, many degrees of freedom were still available to her.

That leaves Natasha with the young man.

They observe one another without an imposed time limit. Unlike the taut lines stitched into the edges of Lenora's mouth and eyes, he is lax, expression only tinted with gentle curiosity. He lacks suspicion's narrowed glare, duplicity's smirk, the sourness of dislike. She ensures to mirror this back at him. It's refreshing to be in the presence of someone who doesn't blame her for the world's downfalls, someone who likely knows nothing about her and seems to assume the best. It could be an excellent facade, and — in this moment — she lets herself believe.

Once they satisfy their cursory examinations, unbounded by prerequisites or required conditions, he embarks toward his room, passing her with a polite nod and the foundation of a grin. It's one of the best first impressions she's had in a while.

* * *

When Bruce doesn't return after half an hour of lingering, Natasha ventures through the aircraft's metal maze to the stoop of his lab. That's how she comes to knock on sealed metal, instead of repeating the earlier incident with Jones.

His confusion resonates in his response, "Hello?"

"Hi," she calls back, amused by his constant lack of aggression.

Even through the layers of steel and tech, she can hear the baffled whirring in his silence. "Natasha?"

"It's not Jones," she jokes.

As if those were the magic words, the new passcode for the altered locks, feet hurry over and release the seal with a sighed gust. The isolation ends when metal retracts into the wall and reveals a scientist in the midst of a monitor, chemical medley.

Bruce looks at her as though she were an unexpected experiment result, and she's not sure whether that's a good or bad thing.

"You straightened your hair." He points out. Of all the things to say, questions to ask, that emerges first. Alright.

"Nice to see you too."

Shaking off the awkward shawl, he retreats a step in invitation. "Sorry. It's...I didn't expect them to drag you into this too." She could've been involved this whole time, and he doesn't consider that a possibility. He asks instead, "Are the other guys here?"

As she steps within, the door snaps shut behind her, reinstating the solitude.

"Not as far as I know." She maintains the obscurity, not out of distrust, and not dishonest; rather, the selection of words is an act of protection for her friends, Clint and Steve — one old and one new. These past few weeks taught her to beware the dormant ears even in the scarce places of comfort. Bruce had his aggressive side, but he was not a weapon of mass destruction — not willingly. She couldn't say the same for Jung, anyone else on the board, even Jones — any one of the them could be listening.

"Did they recruit you because of the other guy?" An odd mix of pain and hope crinkle his expression into something self-conscious.

The honesty comes surprisingly easy and quick. "Yes." As his demeanor crumples, she continues, "But that's not why I came."

"Then why did you come?" A seemingly simple question that dives into everything that unfolded after their rendezvous with the end of Earth — building a new falsehood after the exposure of HYDRA and S.H.I.E.L.D, a mutually shared betrayal involving her and Steve, aliens invading, Bruce Banner apologizing for how his affliction nearly trampled her.

Ever wary, she must respond in crypt. "You miss some things in isolation."

"I...don't follow."

Until they were absolutely secure, she couldn't clarify. The sole consolation: to switch subjects. "The kids didn't trust you at first, did they?"

"Um," he recalculates, lower lip jutting out a tad. "No."

"And now?"

"I just treat them like people." His gaze flicks over to a computer full of loading prompts, but he stays where he is — positioned directly across from her instead of at a standing desk.

Her next statement prods him, hopefully not into discomfort. "Even after what happened in Ethiopia?"

Here, he could deflect, lie, shrug, speak in a riddle. Yet, his glance away is brief and musing instead of avoidant, and what he offers has the texture of truth. "There's something kindred there." He talks of Ethiopia, but she thinks of India. "They want something to trust in all this. Their lives were irrevocably altered, and they're alone."

"Is it wise to be their friend?"

"I don't know," he admits. "It's better than treating them as weapons."

A platitude runs through her thoughts, _Treat people the way you want to be treated._ It inspires the sentiment, "People are more than their demons."

Something's reinstated between them — not necessarily camaraderie, for they're still new to each other, navigating the decoys in each other's personas. Rapport maybe; something that softens the defensiveness he adorns over his skin, and she over hers.

A few pings draw her attention back to his prior tasks. "Those are the results from their physicals. Lenora and Berhanu." He adds quickly, gesturing to his station. "I'd show you, but doctor-patient privilege." The look he gives is a quiet apology.

It's not a matter of trust, but responsibilities of the profession. That she understands.

"I'll be around," she says before heading to the door.

"I'll, uh, give you card access to that." He promises, coming over to unlock the exit. Once the metal acquiesces to the command of his ID card, he tells her in earnest, "It's good to have you here."


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** We're back to Fic Fridays! As always, thank you to those of you who read (and extra love for the reviews + favorites).

I described this chapter to my friend as, "Welcome to Advanced Power Moves with Natasha Romanoff," so there's that. I hope you all enjoy and stick around for Chapter 5!

* * *

This catastrophe started when the girl kicked Jones in the chest and rendered him unable to get up again. The whirlwind of adrenaline and body blurs commenced when the person of interest — Alma Nielsen — sprinted up the stairs. Natasha followed, an agent barked at Berhanu, a father squawked his shock, and Bruce was suspended in the chaos of it all.

Footfalls and crashes on the second floor thunder through the ceiling, which Berhanu tracks with an upturned gaze. Slurred moans leak out of Jones, prone on the floor with the other S.H.I.E.L.D operative shoving him onto his side. While she does this, she snaps Bruce and Berhanu, "Go after them, dammit!" Jones' saliva glistens and shakes from her fingers as she lunges to restrain the father as he turns for the stairwell.

A fist curls around the synthetic fluff of his jacket and drags him along for the ride. Berhanu leads them upward, into the sphere of broken picture frames, dull explosions on wood, and heavy grunts. The modest two story abode is a minefield of glass and stray books. It seems like sporadic mayhem at first glance; yet, Berhanu launches through the shrapnel maze after the vocal cacophony lurking up here.

" _Get back_." Natasha orders somewhere down the hall. Bruce uses her voice and Berhanu's trail to quickly crunch to what turns out to be the girl's bedroom.

Some sort of figurine deflects off his forehead only to shatter on the door frame. His spine spasms once in warning.

An uneven shout follows, "Leave!"

"We're not here to hurt you." Natasha assures while catching her breath, likely assessing the situation.

The teenager wants none of it. " _Leave_!" A boot soars toward Natasha, snatched from the floor.

Ever composed, defusion attempts from Natasha continue. "We want to know what happened to you. We're looking for who did this."

"You're a liar. All of you. All of you lie." The girl seethes, palm slipping onto her bedside table, inching toward a drawer.

"You don't want to do that," Natasha warns.

Bruce is at a loss There are belligerent patients, but none that incapacitated one agent and incited architectural destruction.

In complete English, Berhanu tries to implore, "We are the same." As Natasha watches the threat, Bruce looks to her, watching for any unlikely display of surprise. "These are not the people who tested on us. They are friends." Two separate fingers gesture to the adults in the room.

"They are _liars_. They are tricking you."

In an attempt to outsmart and beat the reflexes of Natasha Romanoff, the girl throws open one of two drawers, snatches a wooden club, and readies to lunge. By this point, however, Natasha has a grip around the armed hand and is in the process of sweeping the teen's feet out, wrestling her to the ground.

In the midst of this cyclone, S.H.I.E.L.D's trained silhouette begins convulsing. Her throat shreds her exhale, so it sputters out ragged and guttural.

Berhanu leaps out of the storm's eye into the maelstrom; he's an arrow colliding with its target. On their side is a tangle of limbs, and Bruce stands opposed.

He stands for the duration of a heartbeat before a new menace joins. It lurks under his skull hooking into his brainstem, and wrenches him to his knees.

 _Not now._

Outside his internal earthquake, a groan slips out of Natasha, and he's transported back to the Helicarrier. It only lasts for a flash, but it's enough to unnerve him.

 _Not again._

He beseeches to the monster within, bowing his brow as though praying. _Don't do this here._ A suppressed roar rattles behind his sternum, trapped. For now.

A gust blows past him, along with a yell. "Leave me alone!"

The creature yearns to lunge after her, crush her like a toothpick. Nausea boils inside him.

"Bruce. _Bruce_." Natasha grinds out. It sounds like her teeth are clenched, throat sore.

Unlike months prior, the beast doesn't retaliate. He listens.

"Stay with me," she says to Bruce. Something, someone, rushes by, which evokes an unvoiced growl from the combating persona. Natasha keeps talking, dragging something — maybe her legs — across the wood floor. "I'm not going to hurt you. I promise."

His skull is a boulder bound to the floor, threatening to break through. The shirt on his back is a futile dam impeding rivulets of sweat streaming down. Two things keep him from slipping away, submerging into jungle depths.

Natasha brings herself to his shore, panting slightly. "Don't give them the Hulk. Don't let them manipulate him."

Where the other guy would have retaliated, gnashed his teeth before, he waits, dangles Bruce between the two equilibriums within one body.

"Big guy — if you are coming out, I'm here for you too." Natasha says. "Both of you."

Tension melts off him into the ground. Algae vines release their bind on his limbs, his lungs. A deluge recedes to a puddle. While he pools, glass shatters somewhere in the second story's recesses.

Stability restores in her tone, though not without a smattering of urgency, "Bruce —"

"I'm okay," he claims, not cogently enough to convince himself, much less her.

"Are you sure?" She asks — really asks. It's almost as though she'd stay if he says no, if he asks her to. But he can't do that, can't distract from the task at hand, trade his security for Berhanu's safety.

 _Go,_ he should tell her. _Be careful,_ rises in his reclaimed conscience. Unable to voice either, he settles for a simple, "Yeah. I'm fine."

Boots scuff against wood in the rush to stand. Between the rise and her departure, she vows, "I'll be back."

Somehow, both creatures within him trust in that.

He listens to the ruckus as the stress of another close brush with the monster perspires off him. It feels like craters dot his back, gaping holes that reach down to muscles pulled too taut. Beyond the shroud of tremors around him, there's yelling, crashing, then a thud of thunder from below. The impact catalyzes new commotion from the ground floor — indistinguishable and incoherent.

Clashing arguments swell, swell, never crashing down. The house hums with the resonance of rushing feet, traversing hallway debris back to this disaster's epicenter. Their mission implodes, and his best option for recourse is to tremble on the floor of a teenager's room until someone remembers him, Bruce Banner.

* * *

Maybe if he sleeps long enough, this bed will soak him in. Maybe he'll etherize into another body — one that's his own — and he won't have to hide, always on the run from himself. It will never happen, but that doesn't stop the boneless hoping, especially as he lies back, lets knots of tensions rest on the mattress instead of his shoulders. For these moments, he can relish in free breathing.

That doesn't last long. Soon — too soon — knuckles rap on metal, beckoning him to stand. No matter who is on the other side, be it Lena or Jones, Berhanu or Jung, ignoring their summons won't make them disappear. Quite the contrary, actually.

A cherished breath gusts out of him as he sits up, swings his feet over, and aligns himself again. His exposed soles shuffle along chilled metal, mimicking a penguin wadding over ice caps, but he doesn't care. Right now, there is no reserve of energy that can be used to care as he half slides to the door, releases the lock, and—

"Natasha." It pops out of his mouth before his languid brain can shut him up.

She smirks, utterly composed. Of course. "Hi to you too."

"Sorry — I just...wasn't expecting."

The cordiality of a greeting unfolds into something else, warm but hinted with tart. Concern, distrust, worry — he couldn't decide. Thankfully, he doesn't have to. "I don't know about you, but that wasn't the worst meeting I've been in."

Candid but smiling, he responds, "I think our standards for a good meeting are pretty low." Regardless of that, it was never a good time to have som ex-military officer declaring their shortcomings and failures, bestowing more faith in the doctor and practicing professor whom the council consulted, demanding improvement or drastic action against "the mutants." Coming off his latest brush with Hulk certainly didn't make the experience of listening to Jung anymore pleasant.

Natasha lingers, studying him. "How are you doing, doctor?" The intent of it almost convinces him that she's genuinely concerned.

Earnest, although not entirely forthright, he tells her, "I've had better days."

There's a metallic clank from down the hall, toward the younger adults' quarters. At that, she asks, "Mind if I come in?"

Were this to happen months ago, shortly after their first encounter, he may not budge, he might've slipped out into the hall with her. The past months — the last few days, even — changed the course of their interactions. Now, he acquiesces, moving aside like a traditional door; after she walks in, he pivots back and closes the sealing metal. They stand in this space he barely inhabits — a box of bare, gray walls and his personal toiletries quarantined to the bathroom. Aside from the wrinkled bed sheets, his lab coat is the only remarkable trace of him here.

"The kids really trust you." It's a statement she's said before, but not this way, not with this weight.

At their meeting, she reported that she and Berhanu pursued their target, Alma, on foot until an unidentified vehicle snatched her from the sidewalk. Supposedly, when Natasha produced her weapon to shoot the tires, she missed.

A haphazard shot and Natasha Romanoff were polar opposites. Jung, however, did not know that, and Bruce said nothing then.

She's facing him to talk now. "Thank you for not telling Jung about them." He says.

That only provides another trail for her to chase. "About their actual powers, the fact that Berhanu speaks English, or all of the above?"

Heated needles prick the back of his neck. "It wasn't my place to tell you — I'm sorry."

"Is it because you don't trust me?"

The bluntness of it pours ice down his spine, flash freezes his gut. His thoughts go to India, where he'd stared down her gun and she called off the reinforcements that were supposedly not present. The memory skips ahead to New York as aliens invaded, and she told him, in earnest, that the team needed him.

It's pure honesty when he says, "I don't know."

The next thing he anticipates is her asking why she should trust him, and not knowing a valid reason. She quickly shows him his folly in attempting to predict her next move.

"What did Jung tell you about S.H.I.E.L.D when he recruited you?" Nonchalant, she eases onto his disheveled bed, yet never removes her gaze.

There's a revelation in here somewhere, a code he's supposed to decipher. It seems Jung hasn't given him a key. "Uh, not much. More about the current situation," he explains. "He mentioned this being a special op — that's about it."

The eye contact is unwavering, even as she tells him, "S.H.I.E.L.D was compromised."

His mouth forms the shape for "what" but no sound emerges.

"Hydra infiltrated decades ago; they got people right to the top. Even had Steve's best friend hostage." She relays this to him — the obviously abridged version — and his head turns into a broken record, skipping over and over on the question, _How? How? How?_ "They attacked Fury, ad we went into hiding. When we came out, Steve tried to save his friend, and I released everything S.H.I.E.L.D had. You can pull up our secrets and Hydra's on any news site."

Political world news — something he hadn't checked for months. The technology section often highlighted Tony, breaking news sometimes tracked Thor and the beloved Captain America and caught rare glimpses of the woman who stood before him. Otherwise, he'd disconnected.

She was right — he had missed a lot. While he was hiding, the world still discovered who he was. That meant they also knew her too — this enigma with a past of silhouettes.

"So…" He attempts to process. "Are we working for Hydra right now? Is Fury still in charge? Is he alive?"

"He's alive. He's safe," she confirms. "S.H.I.E.L.D's...rebuilding. This was an op instated after the leak. Jung may be unsavory, but I think he's clean."

"You think."

A smirk tilts her mouth. "That's why I'm not telling him that you and the kids lied to me, or them." Then comes the assurance, "Even if I did trust him, I wouldn't tell him."

"You wouldn't?"

"It's not my place."

Pink heat tickles his cheeks, the back of his neck. He diverts, "So why are you here and Steve isn't?"

"I went into hiding, made some new identities. He went searching for Bucky."

He nods, notices that he's been wringing his fingers without purpose. He rubs the raw skin. Fatigue settles on his eyelids.

"Bruce." There's something laced in her voice — a request, some sort of summons. Whatever it is, it locks his attention to her, anchors their gazes to one another. "What happened in the house?"

She confronts what he wants to avoid and simultaneously can't stop thinking about. Months without an incident, a slip, and then two near misses in a week. The first time — Ethiopia — was provoked, something he couldn't prepare for. It was a classic sample that fit nearly into an established pattern. Greenland, however, was something else — a close accident without anything directly threatening him. Their subject never bothered with him. Yet, he still had to fight back the creature within.

One thought makes it from his mind to his mouth unedited, "I wish I knew."

"The other guy seemed to listen to me this time."

That he could acknowledge with no internal pushback. "Seems that way." He admits, "It's a first. Better than having to get beaten up to come down."

"Yeah, it's nice to not pull a gun on you."

They laugh together, yet in their own separate ways — he chuckles to his feet and her laugh is so breathy and brief that it's an illusion of an exhale.

Once the jubilance flickers out, she returns to solemn sincerity. "I want you to know that I mean what I said. I came for both of you."

"To protect the others from him?" He assumes aloud.

"Maybe the other guy needs an ally."

An exhale catches on the ridge of his sternum. Something stronger than acid boils in his gut. In spite of it, he utters a rebuttal, "I don't know about that."

"What could be the harm in trying?"

He feels his face fold, contorting at all the ways he could hurt her, break her, how he almost did once. There's a reason he hasn't tried — can't she see that?

She revises her tactic upon inspection. "It's better than being shot at."

The wringing of his hands resumes, and he notices this time. It's lie he has two spiders fighting, strangling one another. Better him than her. Better him than anyone else.

"You know, you deserve to be treated like a person too."

"So do you," he mutters, stealing a glance at her and all her shadows.

Quiet trickles in, filling the gap between them. They don't look at one another; he stays away from the image of her on his bed. She could leave — he isn't providing any reason to stay. She could've told Jung about Berhanu, how he didn't transform because he lacked the capacity, how he not only knew English, but was proficient in it. Twice now, she could've shot the Hulk, shot him mid-transformation, spared everyone a menace. She could've chosen to stay back, wherever she was, and continue reconstructing aliases and mystery. Yet, she hasn't done any of that, and he doesn't know why.

The nature of silence shames him for breathing too loud. He converts a sigh to a slow nasal exhale. His spider fingers continue to tangle and fight. With little other recourse, curiosity about Lenora rises. Eventually, someone should check on her, see if she's eaten, if she's still ill. Hopefully that's what Berhanu's tended to while Jung had yelled at them earlier.

From nowhere, a question emerges, "What've you been doing in the lab?"

It takes him off guard, producing a stutter. "Ah. Um, I-I'm currently analyzing their blood samples. Looking for abnormalities. Then, ah, if nothing stands out, I'll sequence their genomes, scan for mutations. I might have to run a few tests and observe, but, um, I haven't gotten that far yet." Science talk for, _I've found nothing so far._

"Sounds like you could use some help."

Could he? Yes, and this wouldn't be the first time. Had he received it in the past? No, and things turned out fine — usually. So he lets her off the hook, "I'm fine."

"I'm saying I want to help." She states, unmistakably direct. "I want an idea of what's going on. I can't help effectively if I'm in the dark."

"I don't know—"

"If you're worried about me telling Berhanu and Lenora's secrets, don't." A grin, a completely undoctored sentiment, imprints onto her mouth. "As long as it doesn't jeopardize the mission, then Jung can know a little less. The four of us can be a unit."

Though they are both Avengers, he'd not thought of Natasha Romanoff as a unit with anyone. "A lot happened while I was gone, huh?"

"Yeah." She stands. "But I'm better for some of it." They look on one another, Natasha searching for an answer in his face and him checking for wounds beneath the skin, the facade. Wounds and what may lie to him.

He comes up empty-handed.

"I should be heading to bed" Without the assistance of a clock or the light of windows, he claims, "It's getting late."

In jest, she checks the nonexistent windows on the wall beside them. "Yeah, the sun is getting real low." The laughter returns for that; this time, it breaks past the boundaries they both have in place. Smile still on, she tells him, "See you tomorrow," and walks toward the exit.

To her back, he says, "I'll be in the lab around seven or eight. You should have card access by now."

As metal parts for her, she tilts her chin back. "Goodnight Bruce."

It's not until after the door shuts again that he murmurs back, "Night."


	5. Chapter 5

**[A/N]** Hello again! This update comes a bit late and out of the blue due to internet troubles over the past two weeks. Finally Fanfiction is loading on my computer again; thus, an update on MOSAICS! Another update - I now have a Brucenat/Hulkwidow blog! It's still under construction, so bear with me, but I'll be posting updates on there as well and connecting with other Brucenat shippers. I'll also be taking requests over there as well. Check it out at:  .com

This chapter has a bit of Italian. Below you'll find a translation key for the significant portions of the conversation:

 _Sarò mai normale ancora? Ho paura che i miei amici mi vedranno come questo. E il liceo_ \- Will I ever be normal again? I'm afraid that my friends will see me like this. And high school.

 _Non lo so perché io — sono nata così?_ \- I don't know why I - Was I born like this?

 _Non lo so_ \- I don't know

* * *

"I really don't see why this is necessary." Nevertheless, Jones acquiesces to Bruce's tests, the lights shining in his eyes, tracking of a finger, and other benign tasks that make the agent squirm. No amount of training and no level of security clearance could exempt this man from his second checkup in five days.

While Bruce handles him, she tends to Lena and Berhanu. There's no need to make them wait while he does this, or so Bruce had claimed. She's entirely qualified for the task. That, he also told her. Sure, she's better acquainted with the space and materials after the past few days — which consisted of much monotonous waiting on developments outside of their control — but that didn't mean he's obligated to share any of it. Yet, he does anyway.

So she presents a Q-tip to Berhanu, who's positioned in a chair for easier access on her behalf. Without instruction or prodding, his jaw opens, accepts the cotton swipe, and shuts thereafter. It's Lenora who presents a problem.

After Natasha snaps the lid shut on the Q-tip case, she presents a fresh swab to the younger woman. The mouth doesn't budge.

There are two troublesome patients here.

"Open." Natasha tells her, firm.

From his seat, Berhanu spectates, chin tilted up to his friend, who leans against a lab bench. Lena's gaze flits over to Bruce, waiting for his instruction, a sign from him to trust her — some sort of intervention. Bruce knows Natasha better than Lena does, and he's aware of her capability.

A subtle threat pushes things along. "We can do this now or while you're sleeping. Your choice."

"Are you gonna see the results? Because I don't give you permiss—"

While she chatters, the cotton nub dives in, makes contact, and retracts before she can process, protest, or bite back. A lovely gargle emerges in the aftermath of shock. The case snaps shut and Natasha retreats with her earnings.

"What the shit?!" Lena snaps once she's gathered her tongue back into her mouth.

Berhanu bursts out with bellyfulls of laughter, which gets a response of, "Shut it!"

In a moment of chaotic synchronization, the assessment of Jones completes. "I don't think there's any lasting neurological damage." Bruce concludes, "The tests will confirm that though."

The agent's throat is tight, restricting his volume. "Can I go?" It's strange — he tries to imitate the overt, stifling bravado of his male peers, but it's a uniform that doesn't fit. As he gathers himself — dons his boots and socks — she studies him out of the corner of her vision and detects the slight shake in his legs, notices him putting a shoe on the wrong foot then try again. With his tail between his legs, he retreats, though not before turning back and offering a muffled, "Thank you." Then, to regain his authoritarian persona, he points to Lena and orders to her, "Behave."

"Go suck on Jung's arse." She snaps back without a beat.

Here, Jones picks his battles, and it's not this one. His jaw grinds as he leaves.

No one wants to follow that comment, it seems. Bruce meets Natasha at the desk connected to multiple displays. She's already logged in using the chaotic assortment of letters and numbers that comprise his password.

Quietly, perhaps so their younger cohorts can't hear, he asks, "Which one is Lena's?"

Hands hover over the unmarked Q-tip cases; she doesn't need a label when she's got her memory and he doesn't question that.

As some programs fire up, she points to the sample closer to her, then continues to tap away, configuring the settings as she recalls him doing so. A nod acknowledges her statement while he begins to revive dormant machines, one of which is fed Lenora's cell collection.

When Lena subverts silence with an outburst, Natasha can't say she's surprised. "Hey! Can you not?"

Round with perplexity, Bruce's face snaps up, lips curved into an oval.

"I don't want her looking."

A swivelling chair releases a squeak as Berhanu pivots. He responds before Bruce can piece a thought together. "Why are you making her prove herself again?" Since Greenland, moments of unmonitored isolation resulted in him speaking English freely around her. Included in that were tales from his time at university, how he was eager to return and attend the School of Medicine and utilize the lessons learned from scrutinizing Bruce.

Lenora, on the other hand, kept most of her comments to sarcastic jibes. When she attempted Amharic, Berhanu would remind her of how poorly she spoke his first language and suggest switching back to everyone's mutual tongue.

"'Cause Jung trusts her, poephol. That should tell you something."

"I trust her," Bruce admits. "What does that tell you?"

Years of dealing with black market overlords and the cretin that topped S.H.I.E.L.D's list of enemies had attuned her to the kind of treatment Lena doled out. Not much had prepared her for this — loyalty, faith. First, it was Clint in Budapest, then Fury, more recently Steve, and now, it seems, Bruce Banner.

Whereas Natasha chooses words with a strategy, Lena spews them without prior aim or consideration of consequence. "Maybe she's not who you think she is, yeah?"

A terse nerve throbs along Bruce's jaw.

"Tell me something Lenora." Natasha says, slow, superficially aloof despite the low hornet hum in her ribcage. "If I wanted to take advantage of you, why would I bother with Jung? He recruited me, but I don't need him beyond that. It'd be fairly counterproductive to stay in his good graces if I was trying to manipulate you."

Conspiracies churn in Lena's head, which causes her eyebrows to stiffen. Swift fingers rake through her lava lamp red hair.

Natasha continues, utterly fixated on her target, "Even if I was an idealist and completely ignored what an ass Jung is, the opportunity for me to tell him about you lying was five days ago. So, if I don't want to manipulate you, and since I know Jung's an ass, then what the hell am I doing keeping your secrets?"

On that note, she leaves Lena to question, with Berhanu smirking at his friend.

At Natasha's side, there's a curt rumble of a throat forcibly clearing. She glances over to match the stare Bruce gives her — an anxious, knotted thing intended to ask if she's okay, but so clearly replaying what he said, didn't say, what was and was not done.

No part of her training or her experience dictates her to say what she does next. "Back to work, doc." It's a frivolous flicker of a comment, and doubt combined with an internal cringe drips poison onto her gut, until Bruce's face untangles into a gentle bloom of a grin and he returns to the lab machines.

* * *

They're informed an ever so considerate ten hours in advance of landing at their next destination. Rather, Jung sends Jones to tell Natasha after dinner, which leads to her telling Berhanu and Lenora — despite today's earlier events — then promptly heading to the lab. She manages to persuade Bruce away from data analysis after agreeing upon one more hour for computations and synthesis. She comes away from that interaction with a distinct suspicion that Bruce wouldn't feed himself or sleep properly if it wasn't for outside intervention. She can't say that's entirely foreign to her.

In seven hours, she's awake, preparing to usher in the sunrise over Italy. By the time Berhanu and Bruce join her in the hangar, she's already made use of the training facilities and washed the sweat out of her pores and hair roots. Even at Clint's it'd be like this, with her out in the barn and fields before light snuck in. Little could catch her off guard. If she could prepare for it, even if it meant going against the cycle of the day, she would. Not only one, but two steps ahead whenever possible.

Lenora, on the other hand, is not quite on the same schedule.

To himself more than anyone, Jones debates leaving to wake her, weighs it against the supposed benefits — the relief — of leaving her behind. At 0608, their vessel eases into a landing, Jones decided to retrieve the other mutant, and a groggy teenager stumbles into the bay.

Berhanu greets her with a quip in Amharic, his front reassumed.

Air hisses through the cracks in the gate that seals the aircraft's belly from the outside. At that and the early hour, Lena groans. "I did not sign up for six o'clock wakeups. I'm a growing girl who needs sleep."

"You don't have a lot of growing left at this age," Bruce remarks with a sly grin, well acquainted with the nineteen year old's background and physiology.

Stretching her arms skyward, creating an illusion of height, she yawns a retort, "You never know. Maybe my magic powers will make me grow ten centimeters."

At that, Berhanu dips his chin down toward her and issues a blunt scoff.

A playful punch lands in the middle of his chest. "Yeah, laugh now. You're still up at the asscrack of dawn with the rest of us."

He issues his response with a smirk, his pacing deliberately haste. It takes Lena an extra moment to process and piece together a translation. "You traitor!" To Bruce, she turns and explains, "He actually _likes_ getting up this early."

Natasha quips, "It is a requirement of being a superhero."

The look shot at her starts dirty, though snark quickly washes away the disdain. "I'm retiring after Doctor Banner finds a way to cure us."

Thereafter, Jones escorts the young adults into the town, while Natasha and Bruce are free to head to today's station. "Free" meaning in the company of no less than three S.H.I.E.L.D agents, of course. The only conversation between her and Bruce takes place in silence — occasional stares that bump into one another during their miscellaneous observations of workers walking down the stone streets, kids only slightly younger than Lena and Berhanu engaged in excited and conversation that rolls from their mouths like river water over rocks.

A fresh oil smell enriches the air, which contains the warmth of a cooling bread oven. Here, her gait, heavy with purpose, feels out of place, like a smear of pastel on a canvas of quiet watercolors. This is a place where people check over their shoulders when friends call out, not for threats. Unfortunately, she can't recall ever being in the former situation.

Their rented office lies not too far from the town's boundaries, where the air vessel awaits them. Should all go according to plan, today should comprise solely of a few appointments with minors who reported the emergence of strange abilities following seemingly routine physicals and some vaccinations. While peeking at the files, Berhanu noted the impoverished trend among their patients.

As the leading expert on eliciting sympathy and trust, Jung lifted the pseudo-house arrest on the mutants to recruit their presence in the office lobby. He wanted to have the two young adults facilitate camaraderie when neither spoke any Italian. What a brilliant plan.

As it turns out, the one with the most language familiarity is her, which automatically assigns her the role of interviewer, and designates Bruce to the position of her assistant. Seeing as this doesn't require much interpersonal interaction, he doesn't have any qualms with the setup.

The first visitor is a boy of fifteen who prides himself on a mane of syrupy locks that hangs past his shoulders. What she gleans from his cat's purr is a general friendliness, something about an American doctor, and not much else. Based on her comprehension, it could've been Bruce who catalyzed everything.

She had said she was decent with Italian, not fluent. They have eight more appointments and a very long day ahead of them.

Between kids, she and Bruce convene over a chart and discuss whatever the hell just happened.

"This is a mess." She says when faced with numerous empty spaces on the page.

"It's not so bad."

An eyebrow raise calls him out on his bullshit.

He amends his previous statement. "Yeah, it's not great."

"We've got a full crew and can't overcome a language barrier," she drones.

"His labs should fill some stuff in. We're not totally screwed."

Their stares meet and he shrugs a little. He's also the first to disconnect, abandon their station to go summon the next person. The door opens, she grabs a new chart — this one for a Laura Ferrante, another fifteen year old — and mentally prepares her script. The hitch is not the translation, but Bruce standing silent in the doorway.

A lost puppy look shoots to her, and she knows exactly what's going on. She feeds him his line, " _Prossimo_ ."

He relays that to the room. To his summons, a girl approaches, peeking around him at Natasha.

" _Buongiorno_ , " Natasha greets.

A summer bright smile pops out at her. " _Ciao dottoressa_. "

 _Doctor_. She's gonna run with it.

Laura murmurs something to an unseen chaperone with an embellishment of, " _Per favore, mama,_ " then slips into the room. With the assistance of a stool, she lifts herself onto the bench where Bruce starts collecting blood on one side while Natasha asks her prepped questions.

Thankfully, this patient slows her speech, filters it with pauses and contemplation. From her responses, a clearer image materializes: two American men, one older with a rich beard, friendlier than his younger assistant — a "usual American," Laura calls the second man. Her symptoms — which are lost in translation — emerged after a follow-up appointment, during which they ran more extensive tests.

Every so often, Laura stops, checks for comprehension in Natasha's expression, where she often finds nothing but a sympathetic grin. Those checkins are the only time that Laura stops picking at her scabbed cuticles.

When Bruce concludes his collection, he tells her, " _Grazie_ ," and retreats back to the station he shares with Natasha.

"Ah — _prego_ ," she says. Then she has her own inquiry. " _Sarò mai normale ancora? Ho paura che i miei amici mi vedranno come questo. E il liceo_. " A choked laugh hisses out. " _Non lo so perché io — sono nata così ?_ Ai, " A bubble of blood pops where thumbnail meets raw skin.

Instead of answering right away, Natasha turns to retrieve a bandaid and finds Bruce waiting with one offered.

When she turns back, she takes Laura's hand, now streaked with red since she tried to wipe away the incident on her exposed thigh. The friction of the hasty movement infuriated the other wounds, incomplete in their healing. One fissure of blood becomes leaks in a sinking ship in the moment Natasha took to look away. Hesitant to turn her back, even for a second, she requests, "Can you pass the box?"

"Wha—oh." Wrapped bandages shift around in the vacant space as he presses the package into her waiting palm.

Unsure of how to explain herself, how to answer the question posed, she takes the teenager's bleeding hand wordlessly. But Laura doesn't set the issue aside. As Natasha stoppers each abrasion, she murmurs, " _Dottoressa_ ?"

" _Non lo so_ ." It's the truth, but she's not sure whether it's because she didn't take the time to interpret most of the inquiry or she doesn't know how to express her pessimistic predictions to the teenager, nor does she want to. Both possibilities warrant her quiet apology, an almost whispered, " _Mi dispiace_ ."

Every interview following remains professional and distant, for the sake of the kids.

* * *

Being a top level agent of S.H.I.E.L.D had its perks — free airfare, plenty of weapons, new aliases and identities upon request. She would not count two men mansplaining and unnecessarily speculating among those perks.

Alas, both she and Bruce have to endure this debriefing meeting before they can go eat — endure Jung soaking in every word of the esteemed Professor Fray, consultant to this mission's task force. The ass-kissing makes it easy to exchange quick, exasperated glances with her ally in the room, though.

"Could this be another HYDRA situation?" The professor muses onscreen.

While Jung nods thoughtfully, Natasha resists the urge to roll her eyes. "It's unlikely. There's not many places for a copycat organization to hide," she says.

Fray offers a blissfully oblivious grin. Falsely oblivious, she suspects. "Didn't HYDRA leech off S.H.I.E.L.D for decades?"

"Yes," she says, icy with her politeness. "And now S.H.I.E.L.D has been dismantled, forced to build from the ground up."

"Besides," Bruce intervenes, uncertain, "the wider scope suggests that these guys are amateurs, like Natasha said before." Unfortunately, a lot of her report and suspicions had gone to waste. If it hadn't, this meeting would be long over.

"Amateurs who genetically modified dozens, possibly hundreds, of developing adolescents." Professor Fray rebukes, ever condescending with his courtesy.

"They may know the science, but not how to follow through," she says halfheartedly.

"Yet they still enjoy success, as they still go unidentified and unapprehended."

Jung interjects, "There's a reason this council consults Professor Fray. He could lead us to results."

"More so than Doctor Banner's lab work," she retorts.

"Certainly more so than your field work," Jung counters.

Bruce stutters over the beginning of a defense, but Fray, still even in tone, smothers him, "Alright, alright. I don't mean to cause a fuss." To appear contemplative, perhaps even classically sagacious, he strokes his chestnut mustache with two fingers. "Actually...that description reminds me of a colleague researching in California right now. Supposedly. I haven't had much contact, but I can ask around the department…"

"Please do so, professor. Thank you." Jung practically bows to the projection.

"Of course. No guarantees though — he's a modest man. I only mention him because of his research interests and appearance."

"Better than anything we have right now." If Jung wasn't focused on exploring the depths of Fray's rectum, she's sure he would've glared at her and Bruce.

* * *

To reaffirm trust among the other agents, she eats with them, endures their speculative conversations, instead of Bruce, Berhanu, and Lena, who sit at their own table.

A jab at Jones interrupts the dinner talk. "Yo Eli, time to go babysit."

Agent Jones and a few others, including herself, glance over to the redhead teen as she leaves the premises.

"She can get back on her own," Jones mumbles into another bite of dry chicken.

"'Kay. Not my job on the line."

Without announcement, Natasha abandons her tray and mealtime acquaintances, then heads out.

For a solid minute, she trails behind the teen through straight edged hallways. Safely out of the cafeteria's range, she engages, "Lenora."

A melodramatic sigh rushes out of her, the look she gives is corrosive. "Oh, _now_ I'm cool enough for you?"

This girl speaks a dialect entirely foreign to Natasha: high school. It's one of the very few areas where bluffing could not cover up her lack of expertise.

"What are you talking about?" Exasperation leaks out in her exhale.

"Really?" Lena deadpans. "One day you're all like, 'trust me, I'm on your side.' Then you don't sit with us at dinner. Don't even _look_ at us."

The airy squeak of an imitation was meant to antagonize, but near death missions often presented things more aggravating than bad mimicry.

"Lena." Natasha says, still calm. "Am I going to have to explain every decision I make to you?"

Emergency siren crimson glowed on the younger girl's cheeks. "Until you stop being a shady bitch, then yeah!"

"I told you I'm on your side. That means acting in whatever way I have to in order to protect you."

While Lenora rose, she remained on the same level of tone and ease.

"Yeah, well, Bruce doesn't backstab us to 'protect us.'"

"I'm a trained spy," She leaves out the assassin part. "This is my specialty. I read people and get information. Bruce does that with science."

"How'd'you expect me to trust you when you say kak like that? You could be doing renaissance — _reconnaissance_ — on me and Berhanu, _and_ Bruce."

This evening is a session of her repeating herself on loop. That, out of everything, she doesn't care for. It's something she sometimes misses about working solo.

"I would've already gone to Jung if I was. There'd be no point in me withholding information now. I know Berhanu can communicate with everyone, and I know what your actual powers are."

Caught in a web they wove, fury grew in Lena. "Shut up ! They could have these hallways bugged!"

"If it was, we wouldn't be talking right now." Before more accusations could fly, she says, "My security clearance is high enough so I know which parts of the ship have surveillance."

"You're not helping your case." Lenora grinds out, volume lowered.

Despite a lack of formal training, the girl could pull off a fairly convincing facade. However, her skill level shows when someone calls on her bluff. Deception doesn't stop after the initial lie; it's tiered, and an agent had to be prepared for an emergency exit or resubmission following suspicion. Brash as she is, Lena wouldn't learn that. Not on her own.

"I'd like to train you," Natasha says to the nasty look simmering at her.

Eyes narrow to near slits. "What?"

"You can't keep this up without help. You need to learn to rely on something else if you're going to keep lying about your powers."

"I don't want help from you."

"But you need it. And I'm the only one who will give it."

"So, what — you wanna teach me how to lie to everyone like you?"

 _Perhaps teach you some better insults,_ she thinks, but doesn't say. "I'll train you in fighting. No more hyena outbursts."

While Lena contemplates, her tongue pokes the insides of her cheeks, making each side stick out in turn. Natasha could see her scanning for a trap that doesn't exist.

Unsuccessful, a skeptical question comes, "Why would you do that?"

"You'll need to protect yourself once this is done. There's also a lot of trust in putting something into a non-lethal chokehold." It's not a lie, but not the entirety of the truth either. Another lesson in deception: there were the lies to manipulate and the lies to protect.

Oblivious to all this, gleeful surprise overcomes the suspicion souring Lena. "I get to put you in a chokehold?"


	6. Chapter 6

**[DISCLAIMER] PLEASE READ:** This chapter contains an instance of elephant riding. I'd like to note that this practice is _incredibly_ detrimental to the spines of elephants. Despite their massive size, their spines are not designed to support the weight of a human, much less several. The Dodo has a good article on this that you can read here: .

There was a lot of inner turmoil behind the decision of whether to keep that scene in there. In the end, knowing that this is a practice prevalent in that location, I chose to keep it in with this disclaimer. Additionally, I know many people who aren't aware of the harm caused by elephant riding or elephant trekking, so perhaps this is one way to tell a few individuals of its damage.

If this decision upsets anyone, I completely understand, I apologize, and I am completely open to having a conversation about it.

In any case, thank you for reading. I appreciate your time and engagement as always.

* * *

Between the hours of waiting on a report from Fray and meetings that escalated to yelling or scolding, Bruce consumes time with data analysis in the lab. The space also becomes Berhanu's hangout and quasi-classroom. He'd spend some days as Bruce's shadow and ask for assignments and readings on others. Lenora assumed all people under the age of 30 hated school and couldn't wait to escape, yet here Berhanu was — still set on pursuing obstetrics and gynecology.

While the two guys did that, Natasha would take Lena to the training facilities. They often butt heads with agents Marquez and Barbara, who weren't too keen on sharing the space with a mutated teenager. After Natasha challenged Marquez to spar and pinned her in nine seconds, they weren't too keen on being around Natasha either. Sacrificing their good graces was worth the uptick in warmth and respect from Lena.

After their second session, they head back to the lab, where Lena burst in running. She yelps, "I'm sweaty!" Then launches into a koala hold on Berhanu's back.

In her rush to disperse perspiration, she neglected Jung and Jones in the room. There would be no backing away from this for Natasha. Especially not since Jung summons her, "Join us, Agent Romanoff."

From the desk they usually worked at together, Bruce shoots her a beaten dog look.

"What seems to the be the problem?" She asks, acknowledging the obvious. As she moves, Lena slips off her friend.

"Let's review, shall we?" Jung's hands swing behind his back, clasp, then he pivots his body toward Bruce. "Instead of investigating for evidence that will lead us to whoever manufactured the mutants, Doctor Banner has been fawning over the genetic codes of these two." A curt head jerk signals to the young adults. "He's also squandering time by playing medic for Jones, who's perfectly fine." Even from the distance at which she stands, the tension and grinding in Bruce's jaw stands out. "It also seems that Jones has lost access to this space. Yet, you have not, Agent Romanoff."

Lena chooses an inopportune time to make a jab, "Yeah, 'cause it's a no arseholes club."

"I'd tread carefully, Lenora. You're still on lockdown, and Agent Romanoff isn't an approved supervisor." Jung minimizes her with both statement and a look.

"Well Jones pees his pants if—"

Berhanu's heel snaps down on her toe. Natasha surpasses both of them, so it is her directly in the line of fire. "I was under the impression that my rank would automatically grant those privileges, but I see I was mistaken." An apology will not pass her lips, not for the likes of Jung.

"That is understandable. What I can't comprehend," Again Jung turns on Bruce, "is why you are playing with nucleotides instead of doing your job."

"With all due respect, you don't wanna see what would happen if I played with nucleotides." His fingers curl into balls on the sleek countertop. "You didn't hire a forensic scientist. Analyzing the genetics and biochemistry could lead to something substantial—"

"We need a guarantee of results, Banner. There are more and more incidents and we can't do damage control forever while we wait for you."

"What do you propose Doctor Banner does then?" Natasha asks.

To her, Jung seethes, "Reprioritize."

"What about them?" Glasses gripped threateningly tight, Bruce gestures to Lena and Berhanu.

"What about them, doctor?"

"You don't care that these genetic and physiological mutations could be doing irreversible damage? Potentially lethal damage?"

Without hesitation, Jung replies, "That's a secondary concern."

Behind her, Natasha catches a mutter of, "Bastard."

In Amharic, Berhanu throws his voice into the fray. Lena pretends to interpret and respond, "Yeah, I want to know if this mind magic is killing me. We have lives, you know."

Jung holds no compassion or sympathy for them. "Then I'd encourage Doctor Banner to find his 'something substantial' quickly." To Natasha, he reports, "Fray's colleague went off the grid. We have a lead on him, though. There's a group of extremist biologists who seem to be stationed in northern India. You'll be dispatched tomorrow morning. And Agent Jones will have access to this lab reinstated."

"He won't." Bruce refutes, low but resolute.

As Jung turns again, she cuts in. "Doctor Banner uses this space for physical examinations. It'd violate doctor-patient privilege if Agent Jones walked in on one."

Jung sprouts a sneer for her, "We'll issue him a doctorate."

"I'm not sure that fixes the issue," she says, a slight tilt in her head. "An ethics board would agree, I'm sure."

That comment shaves off the lion's aura that accompanies Jung wherever he roams. His snarl summons a ferocity that he could no longer accomplish in this space. Jones provides no assistance, with his gaze locked to his boots.

Authority lost, Jung spits at Bruce, "Reprioritize," then stalks out with Jones in tow.

Once the lock hisses shut, the first voice raised is Lena's. "What a burn!" Footsteps trot up to Natasha, followed by a whiff of sweaty musk.

Something else bothered Berhanu. "Doctor, do you really think these mutations could kill us?"

Lena answers first, "He just said that to scare him. We're fine."

Bruce isn't so confident, and knew far more on the subject. "Altering gene expression can lead to a lot of complications. And we don't even know the full extent of the brain's capability, which makes things even harder to predict."

The enthusiasm drains from Lena, leaving her slightly croaky. "So…"

"I won't stop researching mutations until I'm sure of the effects. You guys are top priority."

Regardless, the sincere guarantee doesn't restore the younger woman. "Oh. Great. Um, I'm gonna...go shower. I'm, uh, still sweaty." Without the usual uplift in her gait, she makes her exit.

With a nod and a parting sentiment, Berhanu leaves to go after her. "I will go too. I will see you in the morning. Doctor, Agent Romanoff — thank you."

The lab doors open and shut uneventfully. They provide the only noise for nearly a minute.

"Have I mentioned that I hate that guy?" Bruce says finally, unfolding and refolding his glasses.

She crosses the space remaining between her and the other side of the desk, where she props a hip. "Not really the warm and fuzzy type." That, thankfully, gets an exhaled chuckle. It loosens his tightly wound jaw. She's genuinely morose to ask the question at the forefront of her mind, "You are looking for clues, aren't you?"

The firefly of a grin flickers and dims. "Of course," he assures quietly. "I'm not gonna stop researching the effects of the mutations. I was serious about the lethality. It's way too easy for these things to become cancerous or turn into an incurable disease."

"I wasn't asking you to stop." She unfolds her arms, plants her palms on the black resin. "If you think you can find something on whoever did this by continuing the research, I'll support you. I want to help."

The lightning bug grin flickers back on. She questions the magnetism of it.

She finds herself saying, "We should head to bed." Her defense mechanisms construct a barrier between them. It forbade her from rounding the table to join him, persuade him away from the data.

"Yeah. I've just gotta save this." He dons his glasses, starts to clack and click away.

Her barrier wouldn't let her wait. She pushes off the table and steers toward the door. Over her shoulder, however, she does toss a simple, "Night."

* * *

Nobody informed them of their mode of transportation once they landed.

The same piece of news yields a spectrum of reactions — elation, nonchalance, concern, amusement, and sheer terror. Jones and Bruce were in the last camp.

"I might stay back here, do some work in the lab…" Bruce murmurs as Lena rushes forward to board. Jones, who has no excuses, grimaces, tries to straighten the trepidation out, and follows his ward.

Natasha turns her attention from their ride to him. "We're gonna need your expertise out there."

He chews on a myriad of responses, but selects none to say. Perhaps because he recognizes this is one contest he couldn't win.

She motions for him to follow with a tilt of her head. Quietly, she coaxes him, "Come on."

He falls into place inside her shadow as they approach.

The sheer size of the animal — their vessel — doesn't intimidate or boast. This is how it was designed, and it has no interest in lording that over anyone. It radiates a humble tranquility, a general acceptance with the task it was to execute. A breeze rolls down from the distant mountains and plays with the flaps of the animal's ears. Its trunk sashays to and fro while it waits.

She ascends the platform and slides atop the elephant without issue. Next comes the weight of Bruce, the tentative swing of his leg, the fidgeting as he connects with the blanket behind her.

Once all bottoms are planted, a shout comes from ahead. "Ready?"

Lena whoops. The exclamation covers Bruce's mutter of, "Is it too late to get off?"

As if to taunt him, the elephants lurch forward and send two arms flying around her waist.

"Sorry-sorry." Quick as they'd come, Bruce's arms retracted. The fidgeting resumes behind her.

"I've had worse," she assures, quiet so as to contain the conversation to their elephant. "If it makes you feel more secure, go ahead."

The animal beneath them keeps moving without issue as they freeze. The offer slips from her with less inhibition than she cared for. It's a near trip into a pit that leads into the unknown. Yet, instead of moving on, here she stands — well, sits. Judging by the hesitation behind her, he too is at a loss, stationed at the same place as she.

On the next minor dip, his arms slip around her once more, slower with intention and respect. The flat of his chest hovers centimeters above her back, knocking on the occasional bump. Tension hardens his posture up into his rigid neck. Not once does his skull clack against hers, although his arms eventually relax into a loose hold around her waist.

Their elephants escort them through kilometers of forests on paths undetectable to the humans but innate to them. Every bump tightens the hold around her for a flash of a moment before loosening again. Ahead, Jones' back would respond with a similar jolt of tension, only in his back and thighs. He dares not cling to Berhanu, who is situated between him and Lena.

While exclaiming enthralled incoherencies, once does Lena bend over one side to look back at Natasha, Bruce, or both. Natasha braces for the taunting. Their stares lock, and Lena turns away, scratching her leg and righting herself.

Their destination waits in the jungle thick, where most industrialization has yet to touch. The village has a deal with the local government to ward off deforestation and recreational hunting. Remote as it is, it's all too obvious a choice for a group of enviro-bio extremists. She hopes it would only be as easy to take them down without a fight, especially since Lena had expressed her enthusiasm to use one of the four rudimentary moves she'd become proficient in.

The chirps and rustles of the forest, combined with the elephantine stomps, smother the conversation taking place up ahead. What she can observe is the laughter between the young adults and the happy expressions that regress them into youth. Jones, the designated supervisor, might as well have been a statue. Though he was trained with the gun he carries, she doesn't doubt that he isn't here for backup. Jung sent this bunch of troublemakers with the hope they'd encounter conflict, and it'd send them crawling back. Men could be so brutish and transparent.

Comparatively, it's a relief to be in Bruce's company, even if the elephants do terrify him. "You know, they're more scared of you than you are of them." She says over her shoulder.

What she means as a light tease he takes rather seriously. "They have a good reason to be afraid." Knowing him, what he referenced went beyond the misuse of these creatures.

Though certain the others couldn't hear, she lowers her voice as a precaution. "You won't have an incident out here."

"I don't think you can guarantee that." He says it as an apology.

Confidence unshaken, she does guarantee, "I'll be there if things go wrong."

"You won't wanna be if he's there."

For a beat, she thinks. A conclusion arrives quickly. "I'll work things out with him."

Finally, the solemnity breaks with a chuckle.

"You don't think I can?" It's a dare issued through a small smile she hides.

"No," He readjusts his grip. "I think you'd be about the only person who could do that."

They ride the rest of the way without conversation. Never had she known a silence that was awkward, yet oddly content.

* * *

This trip is turning out nonviolent and extremely disappointing. Even with the local resistance, it isn't hard to find the group stationed in their own construct. Walking in and asking questions proves even easier. It becomes evident all too quickly that this group of predominantly white men are not responsible for anything on an international scale. The only question remaining is the whereabouts of Fray's colleague — Professor Alihara.

When asked, a completely naked man sneers. The unseemly image sends insect legs crawling down Natasha's spine. "We don't have to provide you with our member roster." He drawls.

"You do understand that this genetic modification is happening to kids, right?" Bruce snaps in his subdued manner.

"Seems like an enrichment to me," The man switches his gaze to Berhanu, who has remained silent this entire time. The tautness in his expression leads Nat to wonder if this brand of silence is entirely different from his usual facade.

At Berhanu's side, Lena cuts in, "We don't feel so enriched." To a different, clothed man, she barks, "Can you stop staring at us?"

A chuckle drops from the nude man, positioned on the floor like some false Buddha. "That's what happens when you give yourself to corporations."

"We don't work for a corporation," Natasha informs him. "We're a private investigation task force, and your reluctance to cooperate is impeding our work."

"You can't arrest us. And I'd like to remind you that you barged in here without warning. You're just unwanted guests we're entertaining."

"I can't arrest you," She agrees, "but I can do much worse." Her palm finds the butt of the gun she stores in public view.

"Me too." Lena adds, cutting down the level of menacing.

Smugness melts into sour distaste. "We don't have the facilities or funding to do these experiments, and we haven't seen Professor Alihara in weeks. He, like you, is not welcome here anymore."

As their small crew rounds to leave, she issues a subtle warning. "Don't get too comfortable out here."

Lena, however, is not so tactful as she shouts, pointing to her friend, "He could bite your tiny dick off no problem!" It's a display of a girl who seems completely different from the person lulled to sleep on an elephant's back as they return to their aircraft. Berhanu keeps her upright as they traverse back. Even at a distance, Natasha sees him fuming like Bruce does behind her. She points out Lenora to distract him, calls an elephant walk a lullaby. Tension melts off in a shrug. She hopes that gets him to smile, and she doesn't know why.

* * *

Boots clanging metal yank her from sleep that night. A tangle of exclamations — Jones, Marquez, unidentifiable others — swell following the hiss and slide of the hall doors. Intermittently piercing it all: canine yelps.

Fatigue has her muscles numbed to sensation but not movement. Her body's autopilot springs out of bed. An arm that barely feels like hers hits the button that opens her door to the scene in the hallway.

Four agents surround the thrashing head and speckled body of a frantic hyena. Two have guns drawn — Jones and Marquez. Another has his arms out; he tries to circle around the animal to some blindspot.

Even in her state of sleep recovery, she knows which name to call, "Berhanu!"

"No, Agent Romanoff — it's Lenora," Jones shouts back.

The switch comes easy. "Lena!" Without a weapon, she inserts herself between the guns and the hyena.

Another room hisses open. A voice, deliberately heavy with an accent, yells, "Stop! Stop!"

The unoccupied agent turns on Berhanu, "Stay back—"

Yelps plummet into snarls. Lena throws her transformed body against the man corralling her and prepares to lunge for the official on Berhanu.

It's not a gun nor Natasha who stops her, but a hack and a stream of purplish bile. Once one heave ends, another begins. The hyena's spine convulses in on itself. The white ridges of its eyes expose and bulge as half-digested muck spews from her stomach's system. Her legs wobble and collapse. The purple and greenish yellow turns red and brown. Her body turns against her.

Puke splashes as Berhanu dodges the agents and collapses before his friend. Both he and Natasha are calling for Bruce.

The door has opened without their notice; Bruce is there, demanding, "What happened?!" The glare he shoots at the agents is the most furious she's seen him outside of being green.

Berhanu scoops Lena's shaking skull, lets bile splatter onto him. Ribs strain against fur and skin.

"She-she was out. She attacked me and turned into this!" Jones insists, like a serial criminal claiming their innocence.

The hyena vomits. It vomits and vomits until all the wild drains out, and the shape warps and contorts into a spasming nineteen year old, curled up on the slick metal floor. A constant, violent tremor seizes her everywhere but her head, which Berhanu holds. Blood leaks from the corners of her mouth. There's a final retch before a string of dry heaving, at which time Bruce and Berhanu take her quivering mass away. Natasha stays behind to deal with the aftermath, stationed next to a small pool of gore and digestive matter.


	7. Chapter 7

**[A/N]** We're doing a MOSAICS Monday this time around! This chapter officially marks halfway, which is crazy. I hope you enjoy reading this like I enjoyed writing it. :)

* * *

Every transformation inactivated dozens, if not hundreds, of p53 — a primary line of defense against dysfunctional cells. Without it, cells would convert, replicate, and continue on relentlessly. Abnormalities and malignancies went unchecked; they infected one cell that went on to become an army, new parts of an organ, the beginnings of a tumor latched onto a vital part. Every animal metamorphosis was an increasingly expensive gamble with worse and worse odds. The jackpot was a life expectancy of 70 to 80 years; the loss: rampant cancer.

Initial tests wouldn't have caught it — that he knew from years of classes and practice. Nonetheless, blame pulsed through him, steeped deep into the marrow, where Lena's disease would ultimately go.

Chemotherapy will have to wait until she recovers strength, until he tells the council and asks for the supplies to start treatment. Jung will probably tell him it's a lost cause, a waste of resources, that she deserves this for lying.

In reality, she never deserved any of this in the first place. This is a nineteen year old girl who couldn't have accumulated a list of wrongs long enough to garner this sentence, who was simply looking at universities and found out about a random "study" on campus. That's how she and Berhanu met, which wasn't in her file.

Berhanu told Bruce about their meeting during a checkup. She had been assigned to shadow him, and he happened to be scheduled for some research test. For monetary compensation, research assistants drew fluids, issued a survey, took his vitals. Lena was old enough — the sweet spot between the ages of eighteen and twenty-five— and wanted some cash too.

Remarkably, Berhanu didn't tell him this out of self-loathing. "I want to blame myself, but I cannot. I couldn't have known," he said.

No matter what, Lena would've participated, would've been selected. He only wished that they'd chosen him for the hyena mutation and given her his powers, which had yet to show any adverse side effects. Bruce wanted to keep it that way.

To make that happen, lab work consumed most of his waking hours, and Natasha's too. The assistance was unrequested, but appreciated. While other agents conducted interviews, and the council finally hired a translator, she opted to stay here, run tests, explore theories — identify flaws and brainstorm next steps — and occasionally step in when guilt clouded him, eclipsed his functions completely.

Like now, for instance, as he witnesses the uncontrollable, rapid mutation of one of Lena's cells. One injected subject multiplied into hundreds before him, and he'd missed it before.

"You didn't know where to look," Natasha reminds him, bent over the desk like he is, only her head isn't pressed against the cold table.

"No," he mutters. "If I did, we wouldn't be here right now."

"You can't guarantee that. She's not the best at listening to instructions."

Already, his mind manifests an alternate past, wherein he tells Lena to avoid transformation and she responds by doing it anyway. He wants to believe her self preservation skills are better than that, or maybe his subconscious is seeking ways to cement the shame for himself.

He angles his head so an eye peeps out at her. She's closer than he anticipated, and he has to fight the urge to bury himself like an ostrich. "The same thing could be happening to Berhanu right now. I have no clue how his mutation is affecting his brain."

"You should go figure it out then." Then she rises, lengthening like a tree stretching toward sunlight, and walks to a fridge — presumably to retrieve some samples of Berhanu's blood.

Blood would only reveal so much. For a full diagnostic, there's a need for machines they don't have — something for an EKG, an MRI, the full nine yards. More equipment the council won't want to supply.

Hoping to leave those thoughts on the counter, his spine straightens, lifts him to a room of computer screens, fume hoods, lab tech. Which failed the younger adults — the machines or his inability to interpret the signs?

"Bruce." The fridge door presses shut, soft like the footsteps that approach, footsteps that bring Natasha to his side. There, she stares, implores him to look at her, dares him to give voice to this hiss of guilt twisting around his conscience. Wildfire hair shifts with the slight but deliberate — always deliberate — tilt of her head, the adjustment bringing her from his blindspot to periphery. S.H.I.E.L.D has disbanded, Captain is chasing a ghost, she's straightened her hair and has yet to tell him of the fallout's impact on her. He's missing so much.

He at least notices the minute grind of her teeth, chewing on something she isn't saying. Before he can find out, the door sighs open.

"I apologize — am I interrupting?" It's Berhanu who speaks from the entrance.

A beat skips. Natasha takes the initiative to respond, pivoting toward him. "If you were anyone else, you would be." She quips.

Bruce looks over to catch the grin that illuminates the young man's expression. "I appreciate that." He crosses over the other side of the table they're stationed at. "The translator speaks Amharic too," he informs with a note less of joviality. "We are running out of places to hide."

Of course. Lenora is quarantined and Berhanu is undergoing interrogation. S.H.I.E.L.D — what scant little remained of it — doesn't like liabilities.

Natasha knows that too, as well as Bruce does. "You wouldn't happen to speak any other languages, would you?" She says in jest.

Laughter comes easy to Berhanu, optimistic yet. "No. But this," a finger taps his temple, "makes it easy to learn."

"Let's...refrain from using that too much." Bruce says, trying on a smile in spirit of keeping the atmosphere light.

A nod responds. "I hope this does not mean the end of your teachings doctor." Famished intrigue shines in Berhanu's brown marble irises.

He dismisses the notion swiftly. "No. No."

Natasha leads the change in topics. "Who was at your interview?"

"Agent Jung, Agent Jones, Agent Liu, the translator — Mercedes — and Agent Elizabeth." Three council members. He and Natasha exchange knowing looks, which prompts Berhanu, "They are trying to intimidate me, yes?"

"Definitely." She confirms.

He seems less irritated than most would. In fact, his jubilance is practically undisturbed. "They will need to do much better," he chuckles. "Maybe if Agent Jung was not so cross—"

A shriek of an alarm consumes the rest of his statement. No specialty lights flash, but a familiar programmed voice announces over head, " _Unauthorized access, zone two, level two. Unauthorized entity progressing toward lower specialty bunker._ "

Before the message repeats, Natasha's running with Berhanu in her wake. By the time they're out of the lab, Bruce is still rooted to his spot. Unease makes his knees anxious, constantly shifting weight. Withholding from fights that didn't threaten the Earth don't present any internal qualms normally. The spike in his pulse, the velocity of blood throughout his body, is undeniable, as is the intruder's destination.

Not only did the lower specialty bunker house their rooms, but a quarantined, enfeebled Lena. It's not Hulk, but himself who yells from within — in his mind, her condition is somewhat a result of his inadequacy, and it seems his thoughts wouldn't quiet while Natasha and Berhanu went to defend the outcome of his shortcomings.

He abandons his lab coat on the counter and takes off at a hesitant jog. There's absolutely no plan for what will transpire once he confronts this person. He can only do his best to suppress an outbreak of vicious green.

As he nears the hall, a shout of, "Hey!" comes in the resonance of Berhanu's bass voice. The hefty thud that follows spurs Bruce into a fully fledged run.

A gun cracks. He rounds the final corner to witness a mass of black and scarlet crash against a metal wall, a cranium snapping against the solid surface and losing.

Fatigue, anxiety, uncertainty — it all collapses to nothing under the weight of fury that claims possession of his limbs and every last thread of coherency.

* * *

From a distance, a force unseen but commanded by the intruder yanks her pistol out of grasp and sends her flying sideways. In the following haze and its hum of agony, oncoming pants expand into a growl, then an incoherent bellow.

Ice of a fear she resents grips her in a quivering cast. Adrenaline combats it, propels her to her knees, provides clarity to her throb's drum won't give way to unconsciousness, and nor would her steadfast resilience.

Radioactive emerald swallows the hall. The giant doesn't growl or grimace at her, rather it towers over the young man imposing upon their sanctum. In that vicinity, there too is Berhanu.

Against something unknown, Hulk thrashed, fists flailing. She shoves herself upward, fights back a call for Bruce's attention. Until the return of calm, Bruce is gone.

On the other side of the mass, a choked gasp emerges, then the lurch of the beast. Berhanu's voice calls, "Doctor Banner!"

A mat of dark hair shakes, stills, then heaves forward with a bellow.

It's not her gun she finds first, but her voice. "Hey!" She shouts, willing the tremble out of her muscles. "Big guy!"

The boulder of green snaps aside, a door opening to show the immobilized body of the intruder — about whom an alarm is still blaring to a mostly vacant vessel — and Berhanu pressed against the sealed entryway to Lenora's room. Now, a sneer confronts her, as does a snort meant to intimidate. This transformed occupant of Bruce's body does not, however, lunge immediately. Tremendous feet pace in place, his fingers and nostrils twitch.

"Remember me?" She asks, quieter but firm, not as if to an animal, but an old ally under an amnesiac influence (which wouldn't make this the first time). In a nonverbal peace offering, she extends an empty palm.

With the stare she receives, her hand could be some unidentified fossil — suspicious but benign. The pads of his feet slide over the smooth floors, shuffling toward her. Sheer will keeps her breathing steady. Not one part of her will shake — she won't allow it, not even as the looming creature nears, shifts toward her, shuts out the image of Berhanu, who's so fixated on them.

Larger than her entire skull, a green hand approaches — not in a fist, but mirroring her gesture. Slowly, she rotates her wrist so her palm faces the ceiling. His eyebrows unknit, his arm moves to mimic hers. Positioned like that, they remain, her scrutinizing him as aggression turns to question. Nothing in all her training taught her how to handle this, how to tame beast back to man. Instinct alone drives her when she moves her hand toward the nearest pulse point—

Immediately comes a growl and recoil.

"Hey." She says again. "I'm not gonna hurt you."

His lip curls and this contorted version of Bruce sniffs forcefully.

"It's alright. You can trust me."

A guttural hum reverberates as he contemplates. She keeps her arm outstretched and frozen as he glares her down.

His fist unfurls and she swears she's witnessing a shooting star. Their eyes don't unlock as she reaches forward and two fingers drop onto the outline of a vein. The drum of a pulse connects them.

She curls on digit in, leaving the other on his write, then traces her way into his palm and rests there. An infinitesimal tremor comes, but not from her. The green guy's eyelids flutter and a shudder vibrates his cheeks. The skin and muscle under hers falls lax. It drops away as she lifts her hand. The stone of his expression cracks and shatters into quakes that avalanched down his chest and legs, bringing him to his knees. An emerald mountain recedes into a pale mound, behind which Berhanu appears, crouched over his ward.

Numbness stains her joints, slows her whip-quick reaction. There isn't fear this time, but something else entirely. That'll await the interrogation, for she steels her legs, approaches her discarded gun, and relieves Berhanu, who ran to his mentor's side.

* * *

Despite his body's fatigue, his synapses keep him awake with their rapid, insomniac firing. What's worse is that his mind refuses to focus on anything, which makes lab work futile. At first, he could at least check on Lena, her vitals, her stability, but she's asleep now and rousing her would be counterproductive to healing. What better choice did he have than sitting here in the hall, waiting for Berhanu's return?

When Natasha and Berhanu escorted their prisoner to a holding room, Jung and Elizabeth kept Berhanu as well Another round of questioning, this one much longer. Bruce couldn't sleep while they interrogated an innocent man, yet he's in no position or state to go protest either, even now.

Thus, here he sat, adorned in sweats, a t-shirt, and a blanket for a cape. On the hard floor, waiting. At this hour aboard a S.H.I.E.L.D craft, no one else would be coming to join him.

Seconds or minutes later — time had lost its grasp on him — the exhale and slide of a door defies his assured isolation. This is not the hallway unsealing, but a room within — one that is not his nor Lenora's.

"A little lost?"

He glances up and at Natasha, outfitted simply in dark shadows. "Yeah, you could say that." He responds.

"Mind if I join you?"

The way she speaks to him, looks at him — it's as if the catastrophe of earlier hadn't happened, as if an immaculate weeks-long streak hadn't shattered apart.

He asks her, "You sure?" She has no obligation to him, and he wants her to know it. This is an out for her.

She doesn't take it. "That doesn't answer my question." Regardless, she pushes off the opposing side of the hall in lieu of sinking into the vacancy beside him.

Silence presides over the initial moments. Her uncovered shoulders settled against metal. He fidgets with his blanket. Neither make direct eye contact. They're close enough for their arms to brush if they breathed in unison. He can't decide whether to regulate his inhales, force them out of sync, or attempt a natural rhythm. The consequence is him forgetting to take in air for about forty seconds and then trying not to gasp. His fists tugged the incubating cloth tighter around him.

"Do you want this?" It bursts out of him, like glass erupting accidentally due to overheating. His grip loosens on the cover around him, thinking of how she might be cold.

She looks at him then. "I'm fine." As he prepares to offer again, just to be sure, she intercepts, "Are you?"

"Just…" His toes curl along the warm spot they've left on the floor. "Can't sleep."

"Not to sound like a therapist, but ah, do you wanna talk about it?"

Years of self-imposed solitude taught him well; the first reaction from his gut is "no." Something further up squirms, though, tries to push its way out. The dual forces tangle in his chest, keeps him quiet.

When he doesn't speak, she does, "If you're worried about Berhanu, they're probably trying to tire him out. It's a mild interrogation tactic. It's harmless."

"I don't know about that," he admits.

She draws her legs up and stretches her arms over. "He's smart. It'll be okay." Her chin twitches, eye contemplated the steel above. "You taught him well."

The odd statement elicits an unsuppressable half grin and laugh out of him. With nothing more to lose today, he gives the banter an attempt. "He's a helluva kid."

That gets a smile, too. "Hey, you gotta pass on the torch."

"I don't know about that." He says more to his knees than her. "Hopefully he gets a normal life after this." No more encounters with scientific green freaks.

"That's for him to decide." She states, somehow so sure, going on to surprise him once more. "He looks up to you."

"He shouldn't." _And probably doesn't._ "You don't have to...do that."

In the corner of his vision, he catches the stare nailed to him. "I'm not reading a script here. There's no ulterior motive."

This would be the time to snap, push her away. Yet, the cruel retorts, the accusations — they won't come. Only honesty funneled out, "I appreciate what you're trying to do," he tells her, "but the reality is I could've hurt you and Berhanu today. You shouldn't be consoling me — if anything, I should be apologizing—"

"You're always apologizing," she intercedes. "We've all got our demons. It just so happens yours is large and green and comes out when you're angry." He starts to rebuke, but she stops him. "The other guy's not so bad once you get to know him."

"He's unreasonably violent."

"Not to me." Their arms fully touch now, the angle of her torso connecting them. "I think he and I have an understanding."

Dubious he asks, "Really?"

"Ask him yourself."

"I'll, uh, take your word on that." Even if he wanted to prod the green monstrosity, he'd be unable. Since the incident, that other guy had been unusually quiet, dormant like some ancient volcano.

Instead of imagining, prophesying the next eruption, an entirely new discussion on nature versus nature occupies him. It starts with Natasha wondering aloud about environmental impacts on the mutants' powers — definitely for his own benefit. Gradually, they migrate to dual self-analyses, tailing on the idea of genetic effects on personality.

"You ever think about who you'd be if one piece of DNA was different?" She questions with contemplation seeping into her words.

She glances at him, checking him for something. He doesn't know how to tell her a simple answer. The truth here is three words — _all the time_ — but it chokes him, turns to nails that deflate his lungs, puncture his heart's chambers. If anyone else asked him this, it'd be so easy to say.

No one else does ask him though. It's her. If he says yes, maybe that means they experience the same self-deprecation, and he doesn't want that to become a truth as well. The Hulk he brought upon himself; he strived to be like a god and became the devil instead. Nat, however — Nat dealt with what people did to her. She survived, and kept doing so when the world tried to bury her.

He's far from knowing everything about her, about her history, but he knows enough to resent the idea of Natasha loathing herself as much as he loathed the monster. She's so much more, and she deserves to see that. Yet, when she looks at him, then looks away, he can't defeat cowardice to say this truth either.

"I wonder if there's a genetic code for killers." She continues on. "I don't know what would make me better or worse." The animosity that twists a paradoxical little smirk onto her expression is reserved solely for herself. It makes no sense. She's not the monster here. Yet, she's the one saying, "At the end of the day, I'm an assassin all the same."

"Nat—"

"It's a fact. There's no denying." It comes out so smooth, with so much sureness. She releases some of the enmity in an elongated exhale. "Besides, I'm trying to make up for it now."

Finally, _finally_ , he gets himself to speak. "I think you already have."

Her shoulders jerk in the slightest, as though responding to an unexpected poke. He's seen her startled before, something most probably can't say without rising from the grave. Something about the widened look that darts his way sits differently. It's not a barrier, not this time. He doesn't know how to ask her for clarification, or if she could provide it. He's also in the unfortunate position of not knowing where to go from here. Thankfully, that — along with so many other skills — falls under Natasha's umbrella of expertise.

The conversation hastily wanders elsewhere after that.

He doesn't mean to fall asleep; he doesn't even realize how heavy consciousness had become. In a dream's haze, his skull floats down to her lap and a shawl of cloth lifts from his back. When he wakes, though, it's to a spearing ache in his neck, bent into Natasha's shoulder — bare no longer, but languid with repose.

The shift of him causes her to stir, lift her cheek from his hair and propose that they return to their own separate beds. They rise slowly, stiff like the metal underneath and all around them. Aside from an expected grogginess, an odd train traverses his yawning brain. He did not know whether to deem their waking unfortunate, for it felt as though — for a moment — he preferred that unyielding floor instead of a bed.


	8. Chapter 8

**[A/N]** Y'all, the last chapter of this is turning out to be a beast. If people would like it, you might get some extra content.

I would also like to say a big F U to Jung. And, as always, a thank you to anyone who reads!

* * *

"It's a pleasure to meet you in person, Doctor Banner." Professor Fray offers his best schmoozing smile and a hand to shake.

Bruce plays diplomat and accepts the gesture. "Likewise."

To Natasha, who's preoccupied with escorting an alabaster Lena into a chair, the professor extends a courteous nod. For Berhanu, he has a rudimentary greeting in Amharic. Members of this unit's executive board and the new translator join them at the table for what promises to be a session of everyone talking over him, Natasha, and the mutant kids. To busy himself as everyone settles, he reaches for the water set before him and subsequently swallows pure fizz.

Fray must notice his grimace, since he takes possession of the glass with a brief explanation, "Oh, that's mine. Sparkling water. Sorry, doctor."

 _I've had worse._ For some reason, Natasha's sentiment from days ago echoes in him. It doesn't feel right to repeat it here, not to this man, not in a room full of quasi-allies, so instead he mumbles, "It's fine."

Across the way, where Mercedes makes herself comfortable, Berhanu stares at the offending glass. To no avail, Bruce silently wills him to stop, not make a big deal out of it.

Once all spots are occupied, Agent Liu begins, "While other agents were investigating in Kyoto, a young man snuck onboard with the intent of 'freeing' Lenora and Berhanu, or so he claims. Berhanu, you apprehended him. You say you have no relation?"

Berhanu waits until Mercedes concludes her translation, then issues a short response fed through the translator's mouth, "That's correct."

"And Lenora?"

"No," Lena shoots back.

Jung leans in, deceptively nonchalant. "You understand that the timing's pretty convenient, don't you? You're diagnosed with cancer, an intruder mana—"

"Why the fuck would I run away now? I want revenge on whatever fuck did this to me. Be-besides—" The waver of her own voice cuts her off. Her skull plops into her palms and, even from where he sits, Bruce sees her sway.

Simultaneously, Berhanu and Natasha speak, but she wins out, "They don't have access to their cell phones or the internet. How do you think she would've contacted him?"

"That's about what Berhanu was saying." Mercedes nods at him, radiating a sense of understanding. Berhanu's mouth pulls tight in response.

Jung turns on Bruce, "Do you ever permit them use of your phone, doctor?"

He produces his block of a cellular device. "I still have a dumb phone. It's not even on most of the time."

"Understand, Doctor Banner, that we have to ask these questions." Liu assures, ever professional.

"Understand that Jung's a giant throbbing dick," Lena mutters, though not quietly enough.

Though the comment goes unacknowledged on the surface, a few cheeks pinkened and a genuine grin lit Berhanu's expression for a split second.

Natasha changes the subject, steers attention away from accusations. "What else has the mutant said?"

"Not much. He only wants to speak in the company of Berhanu and/or Lenora." Liu answers.

Elizabeth cuts in, "We don't negotiate with terrorists."

"By no means is he a terrorist." Natasha refutes.

"Just a misguided victim," Bruce contributes.

"Who incited an outbreak of the Hulk," Liu counters, much too casually.

While Lena steams, Natasha says, "Are we reprimanding the doctor for protecting your mutants?"

Liu placates, "Of course not—"

"We're straying." Elizabeth overlaps. "We're not punishing Doctor Banner. Given these events, we think it best if the doctor starts cooperating and collaborating with Nicholias."

Professor Fray shows a close-mouthed smile of modesty, of compliance, of a complete lack of understanding regarding the repercussions here. Or perhaps he is fully aware and adept in hiding the complacency. Regardless of which reality, this is likely little more than research experience to him, Berhanu and Lena nothing more than lab rats. It would be just as Jung wants — the young adults at the bottom of their priorities, Lena rotting within her own skin, Berhanu kept as a tool, a weapon, a commodity, a walking database. Surely they'd resolve this minor epidemic yet, but at the expense of two people for whom Bruce and Natasha had developed a soft fondness. And what could he do, besides acquiesce — especially now that Hulk's shadow encompassed him?

"I've been assisting Doctor Banner," Natasha says, slow with calculated nonchalance. "I don't think it's necessary to bring the professor onboard."

"Then you can convince Doctor Banner that this is in _everyone's_ best interests." Elizabeth snaps.

Fray slips in, sly like a lurking coyote, "I wouldn't join you onboard, Agent Romanoff. I'd work remotely from my facilities in Ithaca. I'd only need copies of Doctor Banner's findings and any materials collected from Mister Solomon and Miss Berel."

"I don't consent." Lena throws in instantly. Defeat dampens the joyous aura that Berhanu typically dons.

"Lenora—"

Jung squashes Liu's input. "That's your prerogative, Lenora."

Confused looks shoot at him from all sides, Lena's and Berhanu's tinged with reasonable suspicion. The hairs on Bruce's arms and neck bristle as if scraped repeatedly by coarse, overgrown grass. He glimpses at Natasha and she meet him, though not long enough to decipher what lay underneath her collected cover.

"If you don't consent to giving Professor Fray your records, then you also deny yourself cancer treatment," Jung continues, fatally calm. "Which is what you would propose for her, I presume, Doctor Banner?" It's a faux question, already knowing.

 _Bastard_ , growls somewhere inside Bruce, somewhere altogether separate from where the monster resides.

Berhanu's voice drops low, lower than his underground echo, now trench deep. Mercedes translates without the somberness, "He says that's unethical."

"It's blackmail." Natasha manages to keep her tone even.

"Nothing you're unfamiliar with." Elizabeth says, snakeskin slick.

 _That's enough._ It catches in the back of Bruce's throat, where he can imagine saying it aloud, putting an end to this. He'd stand, walk out with Natasha and their young companions. Maybe they'd take their data and go, retreat to a place where Lenora could get her treatment, Berhnau could learn and learn — where Natasha didn't have to be an idea, a fabrication. But he can't get the words out. Only his hands contract into bone aching fists.

"I…" Trembles claim Lena. In her state, with her fate a carrot dangled in front of her nose, there's no way to suppress the quivering. Unlike Natasha, she can't suppress what broils within. Showers brew in her eyes, glittering their fury. "I want to talk about this with Bruce and Nat."

Agent Liu continues to play the sympathetic figure. "Professor Fray has to get back to New York, and we need Agent Romanoff to investigate reports in the U.K. We need your decisions now." She looks to Berhanu, the more rational in the council's eyes. For the first time, Bruce witnesses Berhanu glare.

Jones takes the lull, tightly wound as it is, to rise and distribute two forms and two pens to the young adults, formerly on the cusp of the rest of their lives. A frantic, trapped raccoon glance switches from Lenora toward Natasha and Bruce and back again.

Berhnau looks at neither. Mercedes starts to explain the form, but goes ignored as he ensnares the pen and signs away his body and the remnants of his autonomy. With the integrity that remains, he stands and marches out. Jones bursts up to follow, wordless yet.

"Make sure he doesn't do something he regrets." Jung instructs.

"Yes, sir."

The trembles increase to shudders with muffled whimpers in Lenora. With the council staring her down, she crumbles, signs the form with a shaky hand, then leaps to her feet. The haste of the movement causes her to nearly collapse atop Natasha, who rises to catch her. Into her shoulder, Lenora half murmurs and half sobs something incomprehensible, it incites a nod from Natasha, a flick of the eyes to Bruce, and their departure from the room.

"It's a compromise, Doctor Banner." Fray says at last, the room four people emptier.

"And their lives," he finally says, too late. He then turns into the fifth vacancy.

* * *

It surprises her when Jones seeks her out, even more so when he tells her where Berhanu went after the catastrophe of a meeting. Jones relays a supposed request from Berhanu that enhances her skepticism.

With Lena redeyed and comatose from physical and emotional exhaustion, Natasha deems it safe to oblige Jones — doubt aside. She treks across the craft to the chamber which contains intruding mutant — Akira Hanzo.

The cell resembles that which once contained Loki: fully glass for transparency and no privacy, a cot and portable table thrown in for good measure seeing as this was not a god, but a teenage boy. Entrance to the area requires two security codes, fingerprint validation, and proper security clearance — three items she doubts S.H.I.E.L.D provided Berhanu. Yet, here she finds him, palm splayed against the glass, placed over Akira's. Silence hides them in plain site.

When she enters, neither boy refocused on her. Only once she steps within a yard of Berhanu does the utter quiet break. Dubious eyes snap to her, and Akira lowers his hand, severing whatever connection he had forged with Berhanu.

"Hello Natasha," Berhanu greets simply, angling his body toward her.

"I hope you're not doing something you'll regret." It's both a warning and a sentiment born of genuine concern.

Though jubilance has drained from him, sincerity remains, keeps him unshaded. "I'm not, but I can understand why you would think that." He tells her. "I wasn't giving information, but gathering it."

"And what information is that?"

That gets a grunt from the prisoner, who shoves his hand against the barrier and looks from it to Berhanu.

"One moment please." He prefaces before reconnecting. Gazes lock, a beat passes, then another.

Tranquility shifts to furor in an instant, brought by Akira hanging his fist on the glass and withdrawing into his open cage. During this, Berhanu does not flinch, does not yell or retaliate. Simply, he turns and suggests, "I think he'd like to be alone. Could we move this outside?"

So they go, side by side and stride for stride. Once in the transitory space between hall and holding chamber — a closet of a room that requires a security code to enter and a code to exit — they talk.

"I was asking him how he found us." Berhanu explains. "It seems he got information about Lenora and myself from a flash drive given to him. That flash drive was taken into custody after you apprehended him. It contains data regarding the mutations specific to Lena and myself. That data also acts as a sort of tag, it seems. There is a software that lets a user track us mutants like animals. I think his copy was altered — edited so it was specific to us."

This is it — if she had that flash drive, access to that software, she could look into its code, likely track whoever designed it. That she could do if she'd searched Akira once she captured him and taken the damn thing. Who knew where it is now, who it was given to, if it's still intact. This could've been the next step, and it is now sand between her fingers, fallen back into the ocean.

Her seething doesn't surface. Instead, she asks, "How did he get the flash drive?"

"A journalist. Or so he says."

"A journalist approached him and handed him this data?" She confirms, deadpan and skeptical.

"Yes, in fact." He shrugs. "It seemed like he wasn't being very quiet with his powers. He was proud of the attention the city gave him."

"Do you believe him?"

"I did not get any signs for dishonesty, but that was the first time I'd tried something like that." Berhanu admits this easily.

A portable polygraph test. Appreciate his spirit as she may, his powers are more than enough reason to always stay out of his grasp. One grab and he could discover too much.

Her arms fold as she contemplates the rather unceremonious parting. "What'd you do to piss him off?"

A hint of jocundity tints his face. "He told me not to tell you anything. And I told him that I do not hide things from my friends."

 _Careful where you place your trust_ , the thought comes not from dislike or any bud of animosity, but a lack of faith in someone other than him. But she won't ruin the sentiment, so she flashes a quick smile and says, "We need to find that flash drive."

* * *

No attempt to dismiss or discourage Fray keeps him from the lab, hovering and prodding as Bruce makes copies for transfer. This unwelcome guest attempts small talk, which quickly dwindles into musing aloud when Bruce responds with either stone quiet or snap short phrases. Technology could not operate fast enough to get the probing professor out and on his way. A striped loading bar languidly saunters across the screen as numbers and percentages shift with the seconds.

"Just so I avoid repetition, what have you fixated on thus far?" Fray calls over from a fume hood.

He doesn't give him the benefit of looking up. "Protein expression throughout the body. Neurotransmitter activity. Dendritic pathways in Berhanu. Neuron properties."

"Impressive." Fray compliments. The dialog box tells him the data is 47 percent complete with the transfer. "Agent Romanoff helps you with all that?"

His knuckles whiten over the wireless mouse. "We'd be a lot farther back without her."

"Maybe I should extend her an offer then."

Bruce hopes his eyes are daggers dipped in cyanide when he glares over at the other man, who has migrated to the fridge and freezer. Fray smiles slime, "I'm only kidding, doctor. I know Agent Romanoff is a crucial asset to this mission." He opens a fridge and helps himself to vials of blood and urine. "Excellent labelling. My assistants will appreciate it."

Fifty-nine percent. Neurological readings, neural stimulations, protein functions, examinations of the p53 mutation in cells throughout Lenora. Now, to forfeit it all. All of it signed to Fray with the pressure of blackmail.

"Have you contemplated extracting a sample of grey matter from Berhanu?"

Sixty-two percent.

"No." He may be a monster, but not the kind that recreationally cracks open skulls for some sick scientific fun.

"Could be useful. Of course, I'd love to do a full neurological analysis of Berhanu back at the university. I've got a couple contacts at MIT and Columbia, and they have phenomenal labs — just phenomenal. I'm sure we'd get completely comprehensive data on the mutations."

 _While subjecting him to hazardous levels of radiation,_ Bruce counters internally. The central countdown switches to eighty-four percent. He urges the pixels and data streams to do an Olympic sprint.

Fray announces, "I hope you don't mind if I clear you out. You have access to the sources and I don't."

Another minute tick in the right direction.

"No need to rush, but how close are we?" Cooler full of confiscated samples — a genetic and physiological playground — he crosses over to Bruce.

He drones, "Eighty-nine percent."

"Wow. Excellent machine." A humble tide coasts over Fray for a moment as his free hand sifts through his coat pocket. Bruce eyes a tiny, simple black stick surface from within, then dive back into obscurity. In exchange, a green drive of matching plainness emerges. "128 gigs big enough?"

With a quick nod, he nabs the flash drive and inserts it as the final five percent ticks away. A hum buzzes in his ears, emanating from his jaw, with his teeth clenched tight enough to make a dentist wince.

Thankfully for his sanity, the transfer onto the flash drive completes in two minutes of utter silence and frequent weight shifting. Fray then takes his boon and leaves the lab, leaves the aircraft,with Bruce — purely Bruce — boiling in his wake.


	9. Chapter 9

**[A/N]** Another MOSAICS Monday! I realize now that my note on the last chapter implied that this would be the last one. It doesn't end here, folks!

Originally, MOSAICS was set to be fourteen chapters, but has now been extended to fifteen! Basically Chapter 14 is massive (but necessarily so) and I felt poorly about the prospect of eventually unleashing a mammoth onto everyone. So I broke it up :)

Anyway, this chapter was immensely fun to write and has some of my personal favorite moments. I hope people enjoy!

* * *

In what seems like an act of sheer will, Lena's strength returns when she wakes, which means she and Natasha are in the training facilities at 0430. When weighed against yesterday's events, it seems Lena's hatred of mornings dissipates into newfound determination. Today, she is a growling, grunting volcano, telling Natasha to go hard, push her further and further. Just for now, in this sphere that will burst with the dawn, Natasha's more than happy to return to something known — the one constant in her life.

As a knee shoots up at her, Natasha drops to the mat. A leg swings out, sweeps the teenager off balance, sends her tumbling onto her back. Originally, this was a move that ended their first session with breathless tears streaming out of Lena's eyes, mouth gaping like a hapless fish.

Her opponent doesn't stay prone this time. The body contracts, rolls back along the spine, and springs up in a fluid flash, just like Nat taught her. A wild arm swings for Natasha's head — something typically off-limits between them. This Lena knows, and throws out anyway.

Aside from her grimace, fogginess swirls in Lena's narrowed eyes. Her head tilts off axis just before thrashing forward, slamming into Natasha's exposed forehead. Except Natasha thrusts her partner back with her free hand — the one that hadn't caught Lena's swing. An uncoordinated palm flails for something to seize, pull, claw.

As the other woman regains herself, Natasha tries to push past the adrenaline. "Lenora—"

" _Don't_." The teen's height transforms into a javelin that shoots toward Nat in a full tackle.

It's easy enough to evade. Lena's prepared for the miss, collapsing into a roll that gives her enough momentum to get back up.

"I'm not done," she pants, on the verge of something desperate. Strands of hair falling from her ponytail, Lena charges, yelling, "Come on!"

They clash, forearm to fist. There's a swift kick to Natasha's right shin.

She shuts down the instinct to jump and grapple with her legs, instead opting to duck and deliver her other arm into the girl's gut. Four fingers jabbed into Lena's ribs. Nat folds at the hips, launches left, and hooks her opponent's leg. A quick yank topples the younger woman. Nat releases her hold and rolls.

She finds her footing with feline ability. Lena commits to rolling and springing forth once more. This time, a square kick to her chest sends her flying back to the floor again.

"Fuck," Lena bites. Sans coordination, she scrambles up. The red in her face rivals her hair.

Natasha won't ask if she's finished now. She waits for that decision with action.

Panting, practically steaming, her trainee turns away from her, walks toward the padded wall, where weightlifting equipment and racks of medicine balls rest. Her shoulders hunch, the adrenaline high seemingly cracking. The teen deposits her skull into her palms. Nonetheless, Natasha keeps her distance.

A wise choice, as a ten pound weight soars toward her a moment later.

The distance is impressive, but it's an easy enough projectile to dodge. And she's meant to, for Lena follows after it, wielding a massage stick.

To others, the makeshift weapon may put them at a disadvantage. For Natasha, this levels the field. She lets Lena come to her this time, fake her out with a sucker swing.

The rod doesn't smack, but stabs into the flesh of Natasha's elbow — her nondominant one. A spike of pain shoots through her shoulder, not quite potent enough to deter her from punching then grabbing Lena's wielding arm. It becomes her leverage as she propels herself into a swing that captures her opponent between her thighs. Her body whirls, bringing Lena down.

Natasha grunts atop her pinned target. " _Lenora_."

"I know," the girl wheezes, furious. A palm slaps Natasha's knee, signalling the end. While Lena evens her breathing, Nat unwinds them. Unlike all other fights, she looms over the novice and extends an amicable hand. Instead of taking it, the first reaction is, "I'm so fucking weak."

Natasha corrects her. "You're getting stronger. You lasted a lot longer today."

"And I still got my ass kicked." At last, she takes what is offered and gets to her feet.

"I've been in this game a lot longer. It's gonna take a little time."

Lenora flinches. Hurt, anger, and lament eclipse her. "I don't have time."

"You're going to get treatment." She doesn't just assure the other woman, she makes it a promise.

Disbelief defeats her faster than Natasha did while sparring. "Yeah. Sure."

Nothing further exchanges between them. Lena walks off. She keeps quiet on the way out, despite breezing past Bruce, who stands near the entry.

"Morning," Natasha calls over the teenager's departure.

"Hi." A small show of happiness also comes with sheepishness. With him, it's as though the sheer concept of enjoying something is a guilty pleasure. A secondary thought slips under the analysis, and it messes with her calibration. _He's glad to see me._ Then, to immediately tamper that, her brain snaps, _Don't be ridiculous._

But does he realize this? Does he realize what he's showing? Can he see that she knows? As a cover up, she asks, "How long have you been standing there?"

"Not long. I wasn't spying or — not spying — eavesdropping. With my eyes." He cringes at himself. "I just—"

"Bruce. Breathe." She strolls across the room over to him.

As instructed, he inhaled, peers through his eyelashes at her, chin tucked into his chest. Once composed, he says, "I was thinking about the incident. And your mission today. Usually I'd stay behind no question, but I don't know if Lena and Berhanu are going. Not that you need the help," he hastens to add. "But if you...wanted some backup you could count on — I think the other guy could oblige."

Doubtless there'll be other agents out there in case things go south. Maybe Marquez or Barbara, who still shoot her the occasional dirty look over dinner. Even still, they would also shoot something try to harm her. Probably.

There's a reason she relies on herself first and foremost, but that's beside the point — beside the sentiment in Bruce's nervous statement.

"In case of a code green?" She teases lightly.

That gets a chuckle, which feels like the first beams of dawn washing over her. "Yeah. In case of a code green." He affirms.

She pretends to mull it over, pretend like some odd, unexplored place in her gut doesn't immediately jump to _yes_. "If you think you can keep up." She tells him after her pause.

"You're a pretty hard act to follow." He gives her a half grin, uncertainty eating the rest.

"I won't end the show without you." With that, she breezes by him, lets the doors slide open for her and walks off.

In her dust, Bruce calls, serious again, "So that's a yes?"

* * *

It's not the amplified tremors Berhanu summons that attract their target, but their aircraft itself. This they learn via a transmission to Jones, who accompanies her, Bruce, and Berhanu.

Their trio leaves the agent in an alley of the village they're investigating. The only real loss is when Bruce falls behind after about six minutes of running, but they can't stop. Not when they have two mutated kids on board, one prisoner and the other exhausted from the morning exertion.

In less than ten minutes, Natasha and Berhanu land at the maw of their vessel, where he stumbles over Agent Barbara's outstretched, limp arm. They could check the damage after. Right now, they need to deal with the girl currently fighting Lenora.

Her foe is not someone Lena has met previously, but of whom she was informed. That much is evident from the lab coat wrapped around her limbs and the kitchen pan she uses to ward off Alma, their runaway target from Greenland who harmed through touch.

Since their last encounter, Alma has exchanged her wooden club for one of metal. Every collision resounds with a dense clang, interspersed with grunts from both parties. Whenever an opening appears, Alma jabs at Lenora's body, then recoils from the pan, unsuccessful. Despite the earlier exhaustion, Lena holds her own, and does so without going into hyena mode. Pride, however, will have to wait until later.

Natasha storms into the encounter with a kick straight to their adversary's spine. Forward Alma falls onto Lena, who doesn't dash out of the way, but lowers her haphazard weapon in misplaced relief.

Berhanu shouts from behind. "Lena, no!"

Too late the warning comes, for the two young women topple, weapons clattering out of their grips. Natasha lunges for the scruff of the Greenlander's shirt and struggles with the weight of both bodies. Somewhere during their fall, Alma's grasp finds Lena's exposed neck and latches on.

A gurgling hum rips from the younger redhead, throat caught by a leech. Strained veins dissect her flesh into canyons. A jungle tangle of contorted agony constricts her expression.

Berhanu sprints around to grab his friend by the armpits and tug, uttering, "Let go. _Let go_."

Natasha makes an executive decision. In this moment, Alma is not a victim of misfortune, but a threat. And she will be treated as such.

Natasha whips out her pistol, cocks it, and presses the barrel to the top of the attacker's spine. "Let go." She orders.

Already, however, Alma has released. Her hands hover, empty, on either side. Beneath her, hyperventilation begins as Berhanu pulls and pulls his ally out from under. Alma's chin smacks dirt as they weight below slides out, but she remains frozen. The pace of her breathing is stagnant, though her inhales start to shudder.

With the threat neutralized, the girl on the ground transforms again. Natasha slips her finger behind, not in front of, the trigger.

"Don't do anything stupid." Natasha instructs. She eases her gun off her target's back. "Get up."

Ever so slow, Alma obeys. Berhanu envelops Lena's weight into himself, protecting the girls from each other.

Through a jaw that quivers like moth wings, Lena seethes. "Lock her up."

Natasha pays no heed to the impassioned demand. "What are you doing here?" She demands of their adversary.

"I came for Akira." Alma answers, too curt.

"And?"

Hesitation gives her away. "And nothing."

The gun's mouth kisses the nape of her neck. It persuades on Natasha's behalf.

"To see if what he said was true. And it is. You're all monsters."

Natasha resists the urge to push the gun further into the girl's skin. Lena doesn't exercise such restraint. "You attacked us, you bitch." Her voice scrapes along gravel, low and visceral.

"We're trying to fix this," Berhanu says.

Alma hisses, "They're _tricking_ you. They use you."

"Who do you work for?" Natasha cuts in, knowingly abrupt. At the first sign of reluctance, she presses, " _Who_?"

"S.H.I.E.L.D."

Berhanu shoots skepticism at Alma. Lena snaps, " _We_ work for S.H.I.E.L.D."

"No," Alma refutes. "This is HYDRA."

Was it possible? The insinuation gives Natasha pause.

No, they had stabbed HYDRA in the heart, terminated the parasite, strangled every head. There are no more seeds, and this task force and the Avengers are all that remain — S.H.I.E.L.D's corpse. None of this, however, she says aloud.

"Agent Romanoff?" Berhanu consults her. Alma holds a breath.

On her left flank, a familiar presence, panting, approaches. Her gun doesn't waver, nor does her resolve. "Go."

"What?" Alma exhales.

At the same time, Lena snarls, "No!"

But she retracts her gun and repeats, "Go."

"What is this trick?"

"Go before the others get up."

The reminder spurs Alma on, side stepping away from them and embarking into a run that takes her toward the stretching slopes of the moor's vacancy.

Lena says nothing, but the betrayal etched deep around her eyes, in her forehead, asks, _Why?_

Bruce sees this and answers. "It was the right move."

* * *

It was the right move, but for who? For hours, this question has plagued her.

The other agents gradually came to under Bruce's supervision, and each experienced the same confusion, wanting to know where their assailant went. Neither Lena nor Berhanu would say, and nor would Lena talk to anyone. She locked herself in her room and let the outside consider her asleep.

Berhanu understands, Bruce does and would defend Natasha's choice, but that's everyone she has in her field. Having the masses against her is nothing new, but she's unaccustomed to self doubt in this arena.

She'd missed the flash drive, relinquished a chance to interrogate, had missed HYDRA's heads swirling under her nose for so many years.

"Nat — I got it."

Bruce's exclamation snaps her out of the downward mental drain. She switches her attention to him without a word.

"Sorry. That just...slipped." A blush rises from behind the monitor at which he's stationed.

"What?"

"The, um…'Nat.' Natasha," he corrects. "Sorry—"

"Nat's fine." She assures, not smiling, though nonetheless sincere.

"You found it?" Berhanu says underneath the ultrasound's probe, clutched firmly in her grasp. She tamps down the urge to yank it away.

"In your right lung, attached to an alveolus terminus." Bruce confirms.

This inspires amused confusion. "In my lung? On a what?" His palms hover around the transducer, one of many devices subject to his abilities with frequencies. "How did it get there?"

"Those assistants didn't stab you with a needle, did they?" Natasha says. It's half a joke, referring to the so-called researchers who inflicted this upon the young man. She won't make the mistake of underestimating their morbid fascination.

"They gave me one shot that was not in my lung," Berhanu replies, light as though a foreign device in his body doesn't freak him out. "Could it have gotten there that way?"

Bruce answers, studying the monitor. "It's unlikely."

As his mind shifts the pieces of possibilities around in a sort of intellectual Tetris, his lips pucker into a small, contemplative pout. She averts her glance before it can evolve into a stare. Her palm readjusts on the slick probe.

"Did they have you ingest anything?" Brue asks.

"Before the tests. They said we had to be well hydrated for the best results." Berhanu recalls. "They gave us some strange flavored water. I thought it was American." When she and Bruce exchange concern, his hand comes to rest over his pec. "Should I destroy it?"

With her free arm, she plucks his palm away from himself. "Don't go setting off a bomb inside you."

"She's right. We don't know what it could do, or how it could damage your body." Bruce concurs. He looks to her again, his moment of hesitation apparent through his gaping mouth. "Um...Nat — you can put that down. I have a picture. Thank you."

The probe slides out of her fingers easily as she latches it back into its designated hold on the larger machine. There, at the computer, she joins Bruce in scrutinizing the image composed of black and white grain. A minute pill of white pixels cannot hide in the void of the surrounding sac. Bruce's gaze is unwavering, even as he fumbles with his lab jacket and fails to shed it.

Something completely outside the realm of her training overtakes her. It compels her forward, "Bruce. Hold on." She slips in around him, shooing his hands away, and pops the battered buttons apart, slides them out of their cloth latches. "Don't ruin your coat over this."

The transparent door obscures the first froth of Berhanu's laughter. Heavy boots announce two S.H.I. agents. Jung identifies himself with his stifling, masculine domineering. "Looks like you're making progress, doctor."

A mental fatigue and apprehension divulges itself to her in a clandestine look. Bruce and Nat put a foot of distance between them. He turns to face Jung and Marquez, their uninvited guests, and Natasha's strange fingers return to her sides.

"Marginally." Bruce responds, too curt for impassivity or nonchalance.

"It seems to me that you're ready for your next patient," Jung concludes, resisting a Cheshire Cat grin.

She says something before Bruce lets the exasperation interfere. "I believe you're mistaking this for a clinic, Asher."

Quiet venom sprays from Marquez to her. It is Jung, however, who speaks, "Not at all. This is a research facility, and there's a new subject for the doctor."

The "new subject" is without guardians, without an interpreter — though he doesn't seem to truly need one — and locked inside a high security cell. Surely Jung is full of shit, and Bruce seems to agree. "I'm not getting anywhere near Akira. Berhanu and Lenora have more than enough information."

"I disagree, doctor." Jung sneers. "Akira could be a crucial link between us and the people who did this."

"Assuming he'd talk at all." She throws in.

"His data would talk for him."

"I think you're a little confused on how the body works," she refutes.

Jung wastes no time in honing in on her. "And I think you're forgetting your purpose here, Miss Romanoff."

"On the contrary," she counters. "I'm right where I need to be."

"We'll reevaluate that." Jung ensures. To Bruce, on her right side, he demands, "And you will test on Akira as instructed."

He bristles, but remains firm beside her. "No. I won't."

Berhanu sits up, adding another to their side. This encounter is reminiscent of fire tendrils hissing and spitting as it tries to cross a canyon.

Jung drips poison from the fangs poking through his stately front. "Do we need to revisit our agreement?"

Bruce has his reply ready. "I agreed to help with Lenora and Berhanu. Not anyone else."

"You agreed to help with mutants. Akira is a mutant."

"And he is entirely different from Lenora, and Lenora is entirely different from me." Berhanu enters the showdown with his steady river — flexible, smooth, yet steadfast. His water does not extinguish, but guards Bruce and Natasha from flame. He flows on without apology or hesitation. "Our connection is this affliction. It connects us, but it does not make us clones."

Marquez seeks an end to his intervention. "Quiet."

Jung tacks on, ignoring the mutant, "This is not a request, doctor. It's an order."

"I'm refusing it." Bruce says once and for all.

"So you think." Jung ensures that is the final word, turning to leave with Marquez on his tail. He leaves ashes in his wake and no clue as to what has been burned.

* * *

The devastation remains unclear until the next morning, until Natasha's solo session in the training room.

Though she claimed exhaustion, Natasha suspects Lenora skipped their training out of residual frustration over the incident two days prior now. Hence, Nat trains in isolation. No part of her anticipates the doors opening, the boots clomping, aggravated exclamations from her previously absent apprentice.

"Leave me _alone_!" Lena shouts, thrashing against Agent Barbara's hold. "It's too damn early for this kak!" As soon as she gets one arm free, Barbara seizes it again, and bends her wrist into a position of forced submission. A yelp bounces off the surrounding walls.

Natasha had taught Lena how to break out of a few holds, but it seems these operatives have dragged her from sleep and subdued her on the spot.

Wielding two bags — one from Natasha's locker and the other unfamiliar — Marquez approaches, smug and triumphant.

"What is this?" Natasha demands, facing them full on to avoid any surprise maneuvers.

"You've been assigned to a new mission." Marquez informs. "The council figured you could use a little extra firepower."

This is obviously the first Lena is hearing of this. Her squirming lapses before resuming with renewed fervor. "What about Berhanu and Bruce?"

"They have a different task." Marquez sneers. When her contempt returns to Natasha, she throws one of the bags as well. "You'll be debriefed at your new station. Your plane is waiting."

Numbness claims Natasha. It flares in her heart's valves, pumps out through her veins. It's a different sensation from that which overcomes her when pulling the trigger. This feels like being thrown into a frigid desert night, where she can only wait for chill to take her or a harsh future to scorch her. That doesn't mean she'll go limp and let this inevitable outcome take her by the throat.

"I want to see Berhanu." Lena pleads, kicking still. " _I want to see Berhanu_."

Whatever Barbara says, Natasha blocks out. She marches forward, scoops up her disregarded bag, and walks out on her own two legs. Frostbite crystallizes her heart's cage, where the lock had just become undone.


	10. Chapter 10

**[A/N]** I wasn't going to post this upcoming week, so here's an update a week early! And it's the longest chapter yet (which is hopefully a good thing instead of a cause to roll eyes).

You can pretty much sum up this chapter as Natasha being a constant badass and Lena screaming the entire time, so I hope you all enjoy!

* * *

No matter how many times Natasha shakes her off, Lena's hands ensnare her waist at every sharp turn, every dodge between cars, and every airborne moment. At least she has stopped yelping. One less distraction as they weave throw Glasgow traffic and architecture, chasing the car that has swallowed Alma.

Their pursuit has taken them from a restaurant, where they watched their target, to the city's heart, with its veins of bridges and pavement. As Natasha loses a police tail through a shopping center, she uses Lenora's screams and exclamations as her horn.

After that debacle, they depart the city soul into the expanse of the breathing, pulsing outskirts. Thankfully, at least, whoever is in the black vehicle ahead isn't armed or, if they are, they aren't shooting. Out of reach like this, Alma's abilities with nerve manipulation lose their effectiveness.

The ebony machine before them swerves into the lane of oncoming traffic. It sets off a chain of tires screeching and bellowing horns. Glass shatters as front bumpers collide with trunks. An arrow of metal and smoke spears the road, a wall between them and the getaway vehicle.

Natasha doesn't stop.

Lena screams her name. Claws dig into her ribs. Warm smoke swarms her nostrils, her collarbone, smashes the ice shard wind. Cars pile onto each other, impose on the other lane. They close in on her gap between an accordioned smart car and a mass of silver tangled with flame wisps. The only time she presses the brakes is to lock the front tire and kick up the bike's rear, like a scorpion posing to strike.

A plastic helmet smacks into her shoulder as she swings the motorcycle over the crumpled tiny car. A grunt sears through her sides, where her passenger anchors all her weight.

Natasha posts forward and Lena, who doesn't hear or process the command to stand, slides underneath her. Every ounce and muscle fiber in Natasha strains to keep them upright, to pivot them, to fasten her passenger onboard.

By the time the back tire bounces against tar, they've surpassed the barrier. Natasha floors the bike forward again. They've lost some ground, and she sits on Lena at first in the rush to return to her seat.

Cars continue to soar and skid toward them, hornets cornered and unsure of where to land or what to sting. The wind tries to claim her hair, whipping it behind her, undoubtedly snapping against the helmet she has made Lena wear. Her cheeks, mouth — any and every unnecessary body part turns to stone. All energy diverts to her arms, legs, core, and the place where Lena has her locked in a death grip.

Their target skirts past a slowing truck to dive left onto a road less occupied. Natasha follows at top speed, willing her bike to maintain velocity up the short incline that lies before them.

"Should I shoot them?" Comes a yell directly into her ear, where the winds roar.

A section of her concentration shoots toward the gun at her hip, very much within Lena's reach. For many reasons — too many to review during a high speed chase — she's not about to relinquish control of her weapon to her passenger, and she says as much. "No — follow my order!"

As though to directly defy her, their target — a teenager and her accomplice or captor — veers off into dirt. The nose of their car charges toward a distant plane.

She can't let them reach their destination, but she also can't trust Lena's untrained aim to shoot out a tire.

To compensate, she wraps her fist around the accelerator and doesn't relent as they catapult forward. The tires gnash and beat against the gravel below in complaint — this bike is constructed for agility and quick maneuvers, not offroading. It'll have to endure the dust storm and rocks as they eat the distance between them and the car bumper.

The horizon becomes their forefront. A field withers into a cracked, untended road. The plane yawns and waits to receive its metal passenger. Three times she glimpses into the interior. The first time, she sees four figures waiting. Next, two run within and, on the last look, they return, not with guns, but some sort of bodily bulk. From this far way, it's material is indiscernible. As long as they don't shoot, they're not the top priority. Not yet.

Over the lion's growl of her bike, the rush of a constant gale, and rocks crunching, the whir of the plane starting is lost. Nevertheless, she can imagine it as the craft rolls forward. It's a small form of torture to see, anticipate what will unfold and feel uncertain about preventing an undesired outcome. It's one of the downfalls of being so good at what she does.

The car before her must be close to hitting maximum speed. It screeches at its last thrust forth, clattering onto a ramp that instantly begins to close after it.

 _Dammit._ High tech as her bike is, she can't make it leap up onto the incline that rises higher and higher. There is something else, however — someone else.

She beats the plane's initial velocity as it works into takeoff. This allows her to slip beneath its mammoth belly and shout to her passenger, "Stand up!"

" _What_?!"

The steel tongue retreats higher and higher. They don't have time for this.

"Stand on the bike and jump up!"

It's a big ask — impossible for someone untrained. But Lena's tough, much tougher now than she was when she first came to S.H.I.E.L.D. Despite other flaws that make her a poor candidate for a secret agent, she has the resolve and maybe, hopefully, the reflexes. She cannot hesitate. She has to trust in herself.

Still the ramp recoils. The wheels spin on faster, surging in pursuit of the sky.

"Now!"

The legs behind her shift and fidget instead of lifting. "What if—"

" _Go_ , Lenora!"

The grip on her waist flutters up to her shoulders. A light pressure pushes her into the seat, not enough to propel Lena up, however. The undesired becomes the inevitable, and it soars toward them.

"Lenora!"

"Just — _wait_ —"

A heavy clunk from above announces their failure. Natasha's expression twists into a grimace. She uses one hand to appeal to the back brake while the other delves into her suit, snatches a tiny circle of a device, and flings it heavenward. It adheres to a smooth panel of metal as the plane lurches into a sprint that leads them into the expanse of the clouds.

On land, there is Natasha, her bike, an empty field, and Lenora panting apologies to her spine.

* * *

"Nat?"

The moniker snatches her attention from the software programs churning away on the computer screen. She looks up not to Bruce, but Lena. Her hair is dampened, dilute drops of red trickling down her front, yet another apology in her droopy eyes. Natasha's loathe to remove her concentration from the blips and code on her loaned laptop, to stray from known territory, but she's also opposed to ignoring this girl, he fellow companion on this new mission.

"Are you mad at me?"

Her fingers fasten to the computer whilst her mind computes this — not only honesty, but a slew of new sensations that she's only just been introduced to. Wrinkles of worry sketch the shape of Lena's eyebrows. Trepidation has her wringing the wet towel in her clutches, and nothing but unfiltered emotion radiates from her.

Where is Natasha's programming for sincere consolation? Lost, likely, somewhere between lessons in martial arts, ten ways to kill without a weapon, and disconnecting sympathy's wires in her brain when she pulls the trigger.

"I was pissed earlier," she says tactfully, "but I have a plan B."

"'Cause you can't depend on me?"

 _On anyone_ , she corrects internally. Aloud, she chooses a different reply. "I always have a backup plan."

Unlike most others — including Lenora until just recently — the other woman nods in acceptance of this response, though her forehead collapses into a crinkle. "I'm sorry I'm still not strong."

"You're capable. I wouldn't have told you to do something you couldn't." For this conversation, she tries to take a cue from the younger female and abandon her filters. As best she can, anyway. "This kind of work is part physical and knowing what you're capable of. These people don't care about modesty — they value doing."

"I'm trying." Lena promises. "I'll do better next time."

"I know." Natasha tells her. It's nothing but the truth.

With that sealed, she returns to watching the dot phasing on and off within S.H.I.E.L.D's designed tracking program. Over the screen's rim, strands of damp, crayon red hair whips around with Lena, who turns to throw her towel on the bathroom floor. Clad in pajamas, the young adult comes to join Natasha on the king size bed. She blinks at the lines of code and flashing coordinates.

Unable to make sense of it, she asks, "What the hell is this?"

"Tracing and tracking. I bugged the bottom of that plane and Bruce sent me information about the thing in your chest." On their first night in the safehouse, Natasha took Lena into the bathroom, ran water from the sink and shower, and, in hushed tones, told her everything that Bruce had relayed. They scoped for cameras and mics afterward.

Lena's eyelids twitch, trying to compute. "You can make sense of all that business?"

"With a little work."

"You and Bruce are both hella brilliant." A long stream of air flows out, leaving her impressed and something else. Natasha's seen this in Bruce; it's a sort of deprecation that hangs from shoulders, causing a hunch. Sure enough, Lena, ever sure and outspoken, is subdued now. "Makes me realize I had no business looking at unis. I could never make sense of this stuff."

Without removing her gaze, though nonetheless candid, she responds, "They don't teach you this in college. Besides," she admits, "I never went."

Lena's brown eyes widen into something bug-like. "What? There's no way." She scrutinizes the screen, imploring it for the cipher to its secrets. "How did you learn this then?"

Unbeknownst to the teen, that's asking to enter a tangle they don't have time to unravel — definitely not now. "A different kind of schooling."

"Okay. Vague."

Of course it was. Natasha's trying to find the source of this twisted havoc, not host a heart to heart.

Lena keeps pressing. "Does S.H.I.E.L.D have, like, online courses or something?"

"S.H.I.E.L.D doesn't have much anymore." That, at least, is succinct and honest.

"What do you mean?"

"It's a long story."

"Do you wanna explain?"

She switches tactics. "When I'm not trying to track a plane and trace a software developer."

"Gotcha." For all of thirty seconds, nothing verbal passes, only the definitive clack beneath Natasha's fingers and beeps chirping from the laptop speaker. It's not even enough time to get her hopes up before Lenora continues pestering. "So how'd Bruce get to the lung thingy?"

She resists a sigh. "A minor noninvasive procedure into Berhanu's lung. He dislodged it and had Berhanu cough it up."

"Uh huh." Unfortunately, her interest is piqued. "How've you been talking to him?"

"Standard text messages. Just like anyone else." That was her only form of farewell after Marquez and Barbara shoved them onto a cramped craft that grounded them back in the U.K.

Somehow the contact has evolved from a virtual debriefing to check ins between lab procedures and investigating. Though it's odd to return to notifications on her normally vacant screen, she isn't complaining.

"Doesn't he keep his phone off all the time?" Lena points out.

"Not right now." She keeps her mind, her fingers fixated on the keyboard.

"So...could I maybe talk to Berhanu?"

If it will get the questions to stop, then Lena can have custody of Nat's cell.

She removes a hand, digs out her phone, unlocks it, and passes it without mention of time zone differences or the potential of no one answering. "Here."

"Do you wanna talk to Bruce?"

Against her will, hesitation snags her typing pace. "What?"

This time, it is Lena who gives a lacking answer. She flashes a sly grin. Prize in her grasp, she springs up from the bed's edge and departs from the room already searching for Bruce in the limited contacts. Natasha returns to watching the blip approach the answers they've been seeking.

* * *

The plane lands stateside — Vermont — making that their next destination. Four women — three agents of S.H.I.E.L.D and a superpowered young adult — abandon the safehouse and cross an ocean to chase down an end to this charade.

In the process, a vomiting spell spurs Lena from an upright sleep, making the cabin reek of bile musk for the duration of the trip. Admittedly, Barbara's warped scowl provides some distraction, and a good luck message from Bruce lifts Natasha from the stench for a brief time. That, and the fact that there's no trace of blood in the puke puddle. Although, that's more of a relief than anything.

They land without further incident with stomach matter, which means Natasha sticks Lena back on the motorcycle with her and careens off. With the coordinates input into her bike, it's simple enough to track down the facility hidden in plain sight — a small office building squeezed in the midst of unsuspecting suburbia. Simpler still is breaching the interior and following the chatter straight to Alma, a woman, and two unidentified males. Then turmoil commences.

Outnumbered four to two are better odds than what she usually faces. However, a reluctance to shooting a teenager in the back of the head means their entrance needs a little tact.

In lieu of bullets, Natasha shoots an electroshock probe from one bracelet onto the throat of a man with slick blonde hair and sideburns that branch into a mustache. When he collapses, it's only for a few seconds before his fingers grip the origin of electricity and seemingly quell the shock. By that point, both girls have turned. One man drags the other to the room's other exit, and Lena's at Natasha's side.

"HYDRA!" Alma yelps. She darts to obstruct Natasha and Lenora from the men's getaway.

"We're not HYDRA, you idi—"

An unexpected wrist smashes into Lena's throat as she says this, in the middle of rushing toward her adversary. Her sentence ceases with a gurgle and her stumbling backward.

Not for a moment does Natasha reel. Her wrist flies up to dispense another probe, this one leeching onto the brunette woman's shoulder, who now sports an extra arm.

This time, when Natasha delivers the shock, her target collapses and stays down.

The woman manages to grumble out, however, " _Ali_."

Natasha's already prepared when the other teen rushes. What catches both Alma and Natasha off guard is a crimson whirlwind that spins on the floor and knocks the Greenlander prone in one sweep.

Pride can't set in, not when the probe has dispensed its full jolt and her victim scrambles back up.

It's Natasha's turn to yell to her partner, "Lena — stop them!" She trusts in her ally to understand that she means the men scampering from the room.

Their threat is not their powers, but their minds, their capability. In the long run, that makes them a greater risk. For now, Natasha can apprehend these two mutants. The extra arm the one woman has sprouted and Alma's nerve manipulation are mere minor complications and motivation to not get sloppy.

"Cyrus, Lionel — run!" The girl with too many appendages yells.

Lena utilizes her favorite technique to roll back and spring forward into a run. On the floor, Alma struggles for dominance over gravity, for control of half of her body.

Despite the additional hand, it's easy for Natasha to land a kick in the unnamed woman's side when she mistakenly turns and attempts to pursue Lena. The impact drives her to her knees. It doesn't stop her from swinging her side with double arms to nab at her attacker.

Weakened from the shock, the limbs do little more than flail. It's futile against a quick evasion and a swift punch. The force of it delivers the woman into unconsciousness. Pretty tendrils of sepia splay around the head that collides with the ground.

Someone shouts from the hallway, a muffled warning to their pursuer. Alma utters a slur with a sound like, "Gahee."

A young face, melted with slack on the right side, orients one eye toward the corner closest to Natasha. The empty chalice of a gaze lolls around without aim while one half of her body scrabbles for something secure. The other portion of the teenager remains limp, a phantom. To a wall, she murmurs once more, "Gahee. Gahee." It's reminiscent of Clint's kids when they were gurgling toddlers. Those babies could exercise full movement, though. This is a growing teen who, just minutes ago, could articulate and fight.

This is another first. Usually, in her experience, someone suffers from a gunshot wound, some blow to their person, a form of torture — something external, something inflicted. Lena may have knocked Alma down, but that shouldn't have caused this. Nothing in Natasha's history equips her to relieve these symptoms. Summoning an ambulance is a distant, undesirable last resort.

She reaches for her phone and a shout comes, edged with fresh panic. " _Nat_!"

The halls augment the sounds of sprinting to a stampede that backtracks on its forward progress. Lena storms back into the room. The beginnings of streams run down Lenora's pinkened cheeks. Her mouth hangs slack, panting. Natasha watches terror morph into bemusement. The young woman's lips form the round shape of a "what" but give no sound.

Truthfully, she's glad to see Lena unbloodied and out of breath, but that doesn't erase Natasha's own confusion. "What happened?"

"I...you're not…" The processing flashes across Lena's expression in a medley of twitches, shakes, and quirks. "I thought you were shot."

There had been no gunshot. None of their adversaries carried firearms. That statement simply makes no sense — a hallucination that doesn't fit with the mold of reality. Perhaps the cancer could be blamed, but Lena's symptoms have only been physiological thus far, not neurological.

"I'm fine." Natasha affirms, caught between kneeling toward Alma and darting out the door. "What happened to the men?"

Shame adds its shade to Lena's cheeks. "They kept running. I thought I got near, but I heard — I thought I heard a gunshot. And I got scared, so I let them go."

Natasha marches toward the exit, avoiding Alma's trembling form.

"I'm sorry, okay? I was worried. I thought—"

Natasha presses her phone into Lenora's palm. "Alma's having a stroke. Call Marquez or Barbara and get them in here."

With a tide of questions splashing her back, she breaks into a run after the two men. Cyrus and Lionel.

The pursuit only takes her to an empty garage and dead ends.

By the time she returns, empty-handed and burdened with the image of fresh skid marks seared onto asphalt, Alma has stopped squirming. In the haze of shock and haste, Lena and the other mutant, who has come to, have forgotten their quarrel. Lena clutches Natasha's phone like a raft's edge in the midst of a storm and pleads with it. The two young women stoop over a comatose girl, a likely corpse, and try to shake and yell life back into her. No one else comes, not until Natasha mentions to Barbara the mutant who's alive.

When Natasha tells the girl — Gabi — to flee, Lena doesn't protest.

* * *

That morning, he texted Natasha wishing her good luck in her search. He doesn't know what compels him to it, what motivates each smiling emoticon he painstakingly deliberates sending. Or maybe he does know somewhere within, where dust has collected and numbed the nerves. Maybe there's an inkling somewhere untouched by green, a place that frightens him more than anger, more than the Hulk.

Whatever the reality, it doesn't matter come the late afternoon when a response buzzes in his pocket. It's not a thanks or any note of positivity, rather a paragraph describing that day's events, ending in the death of Alma, the hush of mortality's limits dawning over Lenora, and a new lead — Cyrus and Lionel. Last names to be identified, presences to be tracked down.

How does someone formulate a sincere response to a life taken too young through pixels and flat letters? How can he offer comfort from countries away, and why is it now he thinks back to the daze when he rested on her lap? Why do his contemplations wander to sharing space in his room and weaving new trust between them, to the latest incident of vein-stretching and seam-ripping rage falling away into slumber with her touch as the culprit?

This he struggles to fathom when an entrance to the lab clears way for Jung with Jones and Ford on his heels, Akira cuffed and dragged between them.

Jung announces himself with a snide remark. "Time for your next patient, doctor."

 _No_ , he thinks, a decision solidifying. They have names, they have the device's data, they have adequate intel. Now he needs his lab partner to analyze this beside him. He needs to have her eyes on the same computer monitor and her commentary as they craft theories. It's time to find the crux of this — the mutations, the cancer, the death — with the person whom has all of his trust.

It is Berhanu, however, who vocalizes first. He approaches from a place of apprehension. "What is this? What are you doing?"

A sneer slithers toward Bruce. "He speaks English." Jung comments.

"He's a...fast learner," Bruce says lamely.

Berhanu charges on. "Do you know what he is capable of? Do have an idea about—"

A Cheshire's smirk peeks out of Akira in the instant before glass shatters and backs thud against metal, including Bruce's. His skull accepts the crash, smashing onto a counter as he stumbles and trips back. Red drowns him before green can erupt.

* * *

Once the moon glows in the new night and the supervising agents have retired, Natasha seeks Lenora out on the balcony of this S.H.I.E.L.D-owned apartment. Technically, it's formerly S.H.I.E.L.D's, but was never vacated and reoccupied. So it is here they stay for today, and outside she finds her ally.

Despite the warmth with notes of oncoming summer, Lena is curled into herself, the light above her off, crouched against the railing in a chair she's pulled right up to the bars. Her forehead presses all its weight onto the metal. Her eyes are unmoving. This calm, this quiet Natasha would expect from Berhanu. Lena is the fire to his river but, like this, she is cooled ash.

"How long you been out here?" Natasha asks, alerting the girl to her presence more than anything.

Not a flinch nor any pep elevates the voice that answers. "Dunno." Eerily calm, she poses a question of her own. "How long d'you think until I'm a vegetable?"

Foreseeing the progression of this, Natasha grabs one of the other two chairs and tugs it near Lena. "Hopefully treatment will take that possibility off the table."

"What if it doesn't?"

She asks for things Natasha can't possibly know, for answers not within herself. Instead of stating such, Natasha tells Lena what she's sure of. "We caught the cancer. We know what makes it worse. Alma didn't have that and that's why she was caught off guard. You'll be prepared."

It's hard to read a person when their expression remains blank as paper. Whether Lena believes her or not doesn't affect the next statement off her lips. "I think I get why you let her go now." Natasha doesn't press, and Lena stays stagnant as she looks out and continues, "You didn't want her locked up and treated like B and I were. Yeah?"

"I didn't want us to become a self-fulfilling prophecy."

"Yeah." In silence, Lena's mind wanders elsewhere, and takes her to an apology that slips out, unprecedented. "I'm sorry I let those guys get away. I remember coming up on their tails — the bald one grabbing me, and then the gunshot. Then they were running again and...all I could think of was you on the floor. Bleeding. I couldn't leave you like that."

 _Sometimes you have to._

As if detecting the notion, Lena grips the metal rods and admits, "I dunno what kind of life you've had, but I've always had my family there for me. There's always been someone. When it wasn't them, it was some girlfriend or boyfriend. Then it was Berhanu, and then Bruce, and then you too. And I...I just had to run. I couldn't leave you — and I hope you wouldn't leave me. We've got to be _there_ for each other, you know?"

Vaguely. A web of support is something Natasha had just learned how to construct, and she has yet to fully put her weight on its links. Clint got her started so many years ago, Steve reignited the torch, and now it's up to her to keep it aflame. At last, she has reasons to keep this hope alight, even if they aren't all here with her in the present.

"I'm such a shit."

The brusque self-degradation snaps Natasha out of her thoughts to Lena, who has yet to move.

"You're being too hard on yourself." Nat says, entirely aware of her own hypocrisy.

"No." Lena's head shakes against the metal. "You don't get it."

"You wanna enlighten me?"

"Not really. But that's because I keep fucking up, and I want to do something right. So I didn't tell you. But that was another fuck-up, and now I just don't want you to be mad. You'll probably be mad though—"

Blood slows and chills in her veins. "What is it?"

"You know how I was talking to Berhanu the other day, and we were checking in and just talking, really. At the end though, B was talking about the lung thing — well, I brought it up but he said — whatever." Lena sighs a gust. "He has this theory. Bruce explained how the thing could've gotten in our lungs and Berhanu realized that someone could've done the same thing to Bruce and no one would notice. 'Cause he's already the Hulk. And that's, like, a super mutation."

Ice freezes under her skin. The surface boils magma hot. Fire and ice forge her exterior to a bubbling glass ready to shatter and spear whenever she detonates. She can't explode here, not kilometers upon kilometers away from where she needs to be, where she wants to be.

Natasha stands, spurring Lena to utter, "Nat?"

The younger woman asks for forgiveness when fury has not breached Natasha's mind — not yet. That she reserves for the culprits behind this.

First, however, they're going back to the boys.


	11. Chapter 11

**[A/N]:** Hello, lovely humans! You can probably guess the reason for the delay on posting this: the Avengers: Endgame trailer drop. I've raved (cried) about it a lot on my blog already (hulkwidow-haven), so I'll spare y'all. Unfortunately, this chapter doesn't give reprieve. Somehow, though, I think that's rather fitting.

Thank you for reading and the interaction. Reactions/comments are like whipped cream to me - I adore it tremendously and will never tire of it.

* * *

Once the landing gear collides with the tarmac, sending a jolt through the cabin, Lena's out of her seat and at the exit. Despite Barbara's shouts and Marquez's dagger glare, Natasha unbuckles herself and waits with her cohort, side by side.

When the door swings open, it's like a gun firing before a race. They're unleashed — Lenora sprinting and Natasha jogging at her back. Frantic skid marks pace the way to the crooked aircraft ahead, which was forced into an emergency landing yesterday and has yet to move, even to straighten itself or close the hull with the metal tongue that invites them in. Without consulting each other, they mutually set their path for the origin of the attack. A week and a half apart has not dulled either of their memories of the ship's schematics.

Lena charges past the mizmaze of red tape like a finish line. What awaits is not a trophy, but the ruins of a lab, a field of broken glass and wrecked equipment. Two days ago, they were preparing to return to what this used to be, scheming a getaway — well, Natasha schemed while Lena fretted for the both of them over unread texts and missed calls. In none of her plans did Natasha fathom this — how could she overlook this? She hadn't considered returning to blood splattered on the floor, to coagulated dark stains on the glistering tile.

There had been five involved in the incident — Akira, Berhanu, Bruce, Jones, Jung. That is all she knows, all Barbara would divulge because that was all she knew, or so she claimed. If this blood originated from one source and one alone, they may be looking at a casualty.

In front of drag marks scraped out of mahogany gore, Lena stalls, panting, staring, hands frozen in a hovered state with her fingers splayed. Nothing comes out.

The scene causes some hesitation in a sidelined agent — some vague face from dreary dinners with a hazy name. An instruction, probably a dismissal, waits on his tongue, which Natasha staunches with a cobra venom look.

"What happened?" A cheetah quiet voice asks. To no response, it expands to a snapped exclamation, "What happened?!" Anguish and spit sprays over the other agent in the room, who doesn't flinch.

"I'm not authorized to answer that. You'll have to re—"

"But you do know, don't you?" It's a desperate, impatient ask.

Natasha can tell from his solemnity, the avoidance of his gaze. She responds for him, "He does."

"I told you, I'm not authorized—"

Lena wants none of it. "Whose blood is this?"

"I _can't_ —"

"I don't care! Tell us!" She's creaming now, unabashed. One fist hovers like a scorpion tail over the jagged remnants of beakers and test tubes. Over two weeks with Lena has shown Natasha the younger girl's knack for interesting improvisation, and they don't need to further complicate matters with Lena shattering glass over anyone's skull.

Natasha deescalates with a pointed question. "So who _is_ authorized?"

He ticks off council names and gets to three, "Agents Elizabeth, Liu, Jung—"

Natasha's out of the lab by name five. By name six, it is Lena who rushes after her as she marches to the war room.

Seeing Jung again inspires nothing positive. The bandages on his arms, neck, and jaw incite no sympathy; if anything, it only hardens her exterior into titanium. Whatever happened, whatever or whoever spilled rivulets of gore, left him only with scrapes and bruises, maybe a concussion but unlikely. Beside her, Lena radiates her anger like gamma waves. If she's thinking, _It's not fair_ , Natasha couldn't fault her, could only agree.

When the council turns to them, it's solely Jung without a silhouette of pity.

"Welcome back, Agent Romanoff. Lenora." Agent Liu greets, somewhat haunted. She gestures to all the vacant seats around. "Would you like to sit?"

"I'd like to know how an internal attack happened on an airborne craft full of agents." Natasha retorts. She doesn't budge an inch. A god aboard a Helicarrier was one problem. Now, genetic enhancements or not, the biggest threat on the ship was a cocky teenager with an affinity for the dramatic.

With redirected looks all pointing to Jung, the council leads her to a conclusion.

Agent Elizabeth attempts to cover. "It was an oversight."

"It was a mistake." Natasha counters. "Let's not sugarcoat anything."

"Jung," Liu says in what could easily transform into a warning.

He has the gall to meet Natasha's gaze and state, "Doctor Banner was uncooperative, even after your separation."

Lena calls him on his bullshit instantly. "Yeah, I dunno why you thought that'd work."

For once, Jung addresses her snark. "We needed more information about the mutants. You need to understand that." _Like you made such an effort to empathize with them?_ The snap stays mental. "You and the other—"

" _Jung,_ " Liu cautions.

"Mister Solomon," Jung amends. "You weren't...forthcoming."

 _Can you blame them?_ Scorn, exclusion, dehumanization — dense as Jung was, how could he manage to blame them yet?

She diverts from the aggravating topic. "What did you do with Hanzo?"

He speaks as though from a just written script. "Jones and I removed Mister Hanzo from quarantine and brought—"

" _What_?" Lena gapes, for her own sake and Natasha's, who could not do so — not if she wanted the rest of the intel.

"Please, Miss Berel," Liu turns her warning on the younger woman.

Jung continues, reciting from something rehearsed, "We brought him to Doctor Banner for testing. We had him restrained, and we were armed. However—"

"You can't fight psionics with guns." _Not if you wanted the preemptive strike._

The definition of the phenomenon "psionics" phases into the forefront of her mind — a blurb on a computer screen, her hand colliding with Bruce's as they reached to scroll at the same time. As their knuckles bumped in recollection, the scene changes. Metal faintly knocks on her skull, Berhanu throws himself toward the intruder at Lena's door, groans erupt as Bruce begins to grapple with himself.

In an attempt at compensation, Jung says, "We didn't know what he was capable of because Doctor Banner refused to _test_."

"You can't put this all on Banner," Liu cuts in.

 _Especially when you consider the team's treatment of mutants._ They were "deviants," as Jung would occasionally brand them — outsiders. This is not an avenue for that issue, not now. Should she assume a soapbox, the flow of information would cease completely. So, instead, she demands, "What happened?"

The responsibility of a response rests on Jung yet. With the matter-of-factness of a news reporter, he says, "We brought the subject to the lab without incident. It was inside, however, that he set off a blast. He didn't have any physical materials — he emitted it with a force that knocked Banner and Solomon back. Jones suffered a concussion and other minor injuries. I was...more fortunate."

It's moments like this that reaffirm her spiritual disbeliefs. "And where are Doctor Banner and Berhanu now?"

Nobody, not even Jung, assumes the task of telling. Stares divert in every cardinal direction, to the files on the table, to the floor, the ceiling. This is something they hadn't delegated in advance. How could they neglect that? Bruce and Berhanu were her "coconspiritors," fellow rebels — how could they assume she and Lena wouldn't want to know first thing?

The choice of silence could only mean the worst outcomes. The longer they wait, the more nightmarish it must be.

 _It's a temporary goodbye,_ she'd told Lena on their first night apart. _We'll see them again._ Was she about to be a liar again? Deception, manipulation — those were weapons of intent. A lie like this — it made her stomach gnaw at itself.

At last, Elizabeth speaks, "Agent Jones was transferred to a nearby facility for m—"

"Did I ask about Jones?" The edge was sharper, steeper than she intended, a cliff instead of a ledge.

Liu arranges a few sheets of paper, feigning importance in the task. Then, she talks to them. "Doctor Banner was abducted by the rogue mutant. He was gone by the time Jones came to."

 _He's alive._ A coil around her chest eases.

"That prick took them?" Lena confirms, disgusted.

"Just Doctor Banner." Liu places her weight behind her hands to keep steady, locked onto the young girl, this would-be university student, and says slowly, "Mister Solomon's sustained injuries were...regrettably fatal."

The chewing and roiling inside dies. A glacier quickly forms in its place, numbing Natasha's fingers, her toes. Her gaze stays under her control, and she forces it on Lena, who looks hurricane eye calm. Most everyone passes a look over her, the sole mutant in their custody. Fidgeting hands still, as if holding a collective breath. A submerged feeling envelops the room, with its stalled occupants, all fixated on Lenora as though she's the last whale entering a shark's territory.

When she speaks, the one tone of her voice is concern. "So he's in a coma now?"

 _Dammit._ Natasha curses just to herself, willing away the shock for Lena.

Liu handpicks her words from a bush full of thorns. "No. Mister Solomon died during lifesaving attempts."

Mister Solomon — to them an unfortunate casualty — but Berhanu to Natasha and Lena, a friend, is dead.

A few months ago, Berhanu and Lena were complete strangers. A few months ago, Lena toured universities to please her parents and met Berhanu. He was striving for a career in obstetrics and gynecology a few months ago. He told Natasha of his ambitions, of the Peace Corps and the places he visited, when she asked him about his interest in lab work and research. A few weeks ago, she asked this. He was so certain.

In this moment, the university-organized connection that had led into an alliance, to friendships, ended in grief. Ended without him beside them, fighting with them yet finding reasons to smile.

Lena remains stagnant, paused in a state of ill-fitting impassivity.

"We're sorry for his loss." Liu offers, trying to wrap the sentiment around the still teenager.

As though rebooting, Lena exits her trance through a rapid series of blinks. Her mouth opens, eyebrows knit. Then she retorts, uncharacteristically level, "No you're not."

A twitch vibrates Liu's right cheek. "Lenora—"

"He did this." Her focus goes to Jung, and the bomb inside detonates. The strange stagnancy ends with a roar that brews and swells. "You did this — _you_ killed him. You killed him!"

The councillors may try to soothe with platitudes, commands, or hope for this to pass with silence. Their reactions are the outcome of self-inflicted misunderstanding. Only Natasha anticipates what comes next: Lenora vaulting onto the table with the intent of going to where Jung stands.

The table shudders as Natasha hooks onto Lena's waist and terminates her flight, her impromptu assassination mission. The impact turns a growled grunt into a windless groan. Lena's chest thrashes, her scarlet ponytail whips Natasha's nose. Across the way, Elizabeth coaxes Jung out of the room with a hand on the shoulder that's dismissed with a jerk. Jung stares down at the girl before him, who tries to claw toward him. She writhes and fights despite the trained hold and her own jagged panting.

She screeches, " _You killed him_!"

Two councillors look between the predator and her target, then retreat to the door — the sole barrier to the quieter outside. Liu yells commands that go ignored, if they're even heard at all. Screams and feral exclamations take precedence. The uninhibited sounds cause Elizabeth to recoil, rethink, then sweep any and all files away from Natasha and her current ward. Jung looks on, impossible to read behind his stone — gazes on at her efforts to restrain someone with a very good reason to attack him.

Regardless of that reason, she cannot allow a nineteen year old girl with scarce formal training, so little experience with the scar tissue and calluses of an assassin, to create irrevocable regret. "You don't want to do this," she tells a quaking Lenora.

There's no response, not a sign that the girl's processed what was said. Beneath the wild flailing, shudders build to the next enraged tremor. Her fists create thunder. From her mouth, furor rains. "Why not me?! Why did you make me leave? _Why_? You should've killed me!"

When it seems that she's accepted her confinement, Lena curls into Natasha's grip. Her fingers claw into her own scalp, trying to contain the cries she screams. The horrible, wavering clamor rattles her ribs, rips through the ether, floods every corner, vent, every gap within this chamber.

Natasha tugs a red-faced, rubberband-mouthed girl off the table and leaves two chunks of kinked scarlet swaths where Lena's head was. Together they sink, Natasha accepting Lena's weight onto her lap, the yelling and sobs directly into her eardrums, a flash flood upon her shoulder. When the screams escalate to hyperventilation, she tightens the hold into a vice and hopes this technique works in this situation. Even Clint's kids have never fallen upon her to quell their sorrows.

Their skulls knock together. Within her grasp, every quiver radiates into Natasha's arms. Palms scrabble at her arms, clutching at something to stop the drowning. The high-pitched hyperventilating does not ebb, and only a cough interrupts it. Something wet — saliva or blood, perhaps both — sprays her cheek.

Across the room, Elizabeth says something about getting a paramedic, to which Liu makes some noise of agreement. Jung continues with his trend of silence and looming. Natasha bestows him with nothing, no acknowledgement whatsoever. Right now, for the first time, she becomes this girl's life raft and keeps her head afloat as sharks gnaw and gnaw what's inside.

* * *

"...waking up."

Shards of the unconscious and numb flake away. A distant buzz filters through the cracks, separates into a distinct but dull voice. An ache permeates through his skull's plates, beckons him to wake, to open his eyes, to rise. There are some sort of cuffs around his wrists and legs, however, that instruct him to stay down. They're tight, perhaps metal that was cool, but he's been here — wherever here is — long enough for the material to match his body temperature.

He needs to go back to sleep, needs to faint immediately. Whoever's here, whoever did this, has no idea what this will evoke.

"He's secured?"

This voice is different, yet not altogether foreign. It causes him to recall college — freshman year lecture halls, office hours during organic chemistry, meetings with his advisor during his first PhD. But he's been long dead to those people — the students, the professors.

He fixates on that voice, its faint familiarity. Just seizes onto it and dangles above a vortex of green that swirls, churns, spits up at him.

"Yep."

 _No._ This mistake is going to be fatal for them, agony for him. If he's going to retaliate, don't let it be like this. Don't let them force a bloody unraveling—

"Transmit the frequency."

There's no pain, but he drops into the emerald whirlpool all the same.

* * *

In lieu of an actual guard, a barrier of tape criss-crosses over both entrances to the lab, which are left wide open. It's more of an insult to the tarnished sanctum of the space than anything, and she has no qualms with tearing herself a path in.

The glow of the computer is the only source of illumination for her as her fingers click in the shadows clinging to the keyboard. Tonight, she's armed with a pistol and a flashdrive. She searches for her target in the skeleton of an implant's metadata, what would snag the attention of tracking software.

She's uncovered two strings of numbers, both eight characters in length, when the wisps of discarded tape crinkle.

Jung's commander voice follows. "You shouldn't be in here."

Without pulling away from the screen, she responds, "Yeah, and you shouldn't have released a 'rogue mutant' on an airborne craft." She pulls up a government search engine — a resource publicly available to anyone, yet undoubtedly underutilized.

"If Doctor Banner had—"

"You'll want to stop right there." Through a daggered gaze, she bares snake fangs dripping with venom, unfurls her cobra hood. Jung hasn't moved far beyond the entrance, and seemingly has no intentions of approaching closer. Judging by the stiffness of his arms glued to his sides, he's come without a weapon. Whatever the motivation behind that decision, she doesn't care. It's too late for any sort of diplomacy now.

Once she resumes typing, seeking, he states a simple question. "Is that a threat?"

"You'll interpret it however you want, as always." Her reply skips a stone over a lake, skids over his head, over ice. She continues on, her nonchalance glacial, "Just stay out of my way."

He doesn't leave, nor does he make any regrettable moves to impede her. His arms stay put, don't reach for the phone undoubtedly stowed somewhere on his person. He observes as she pinpoints a tidy collection of patents under a newer company — Chimera Gen LLC — and begins a new leg of her online exploration as downloads pend in the background. As far as he or the council is concerned, this is a new task force, of which she is the sole leader.

They exchange nothing as the transfer onto her drive completes and she uncovers the foundation of a narrative behind the mutations. She obliterates the search history and initiates a factory reset on the machine. They can't have Berhanu's ghost for their easy perusal, just as they won't have Lenora for negotiations with her mortality.

There's another exit in this room, but she chooses to leave the way she came. Let Jung try and stop her.

"Agent Romanoff—"

"What did you do after the blast?" Temporarily stalled in the doorway, she whirls and lances him with accusation. "None of your injuries were bad enough to knock you out of commission. Or kill you."

He hasn't had time to calculate this interaction or his responses. He clings to political neutrality in his answer, "I did what I judged to be best given the circumsta—"

"So you did nothing. You let Akira drag Bruce's body away and you let a young man die."

Frigid dormancy claims his features, seals his mouth shut. It doesn't influence what she knows. The silence is his admission.

"Lenora's not wrong."

He does nothing, says nothing, becomes nothing to her as she embarks from the ruins of the haven she shared with lost spirits.

* * *

Following her chemical subdual, the medics returned Lena to her original chambers on the craft, door unlocked for quick access should she wake and enter into hysterics. This, too, was left unattended in the evening hours, with an idle IV drip and a portable monitor left beside her bed. A diagnosis and a week apart altered her from a spunky menace, who ailed Jones and the other agents, into some nuisance that no one bothered to check on while they slept.

This reality allows Natasha to access the room unimpeded.

She checks the pillow before rousing the younger woman, fingers grazing the strands of the loosened ponytail. Nothing scarlet parts with the scalp. A deep brunette mulch peeks out at the roots. Despite the ailments, the trauma, there is new growth yet.

A few firm shakes wake the teen, whose eyes blink unevenly, glassy with a groggy stupor. She takes a deep inhale of consciousness and her surroundings, then lets her gaze wander to the thin wires webbing out of her shirt, feeding the numbers in flux on the little screen.

"Lenora. Come on." Natasha urges, tracing the monitor's power source to a plug on the wall and yanking it out. Next, the smattering of electrodes over Lena's heart.

Be it realization, a side effect of the meds, or a concoction of both, tears slide out and dribble onto the pillow. The rhythm of her breaths shudders, and Lena makes no attempts to prevent it.

They don't have time for this. _Lena_ doesn't have time for this. Bruce is running out of seconds as they stay on this aircraft, and Natasha will not let his hourglass empty and shatter like Berhanu's did. She will have a say this time.

"You can stay here and wait for them to come sedate you, or you can come with me." It's blunt, perhaps harsh, but that's how they're going to get this done.  
Loss paints Lena's expression into confusion. "For what?"  
As Natasha takes her teammate's arm and pulls her vertical, she tells her, "Your first rescue op. Let's go." They leave their phantoms on the craft and are gone before midnight.


	12. Chapter 12

**[A/N]:** And we continue with the badassery of Natasha, and also the recklessness of Lena. Also, Bruce is pretty screwed. That's a thing.

Have fun reading!

* * *

There are many species of quiet and, as someone who often dwells in solitude, he is well acquainted with the various specimens. The quiet he awakes in haunts him, coats his skin in nonexistent spider legs he can't swat away. This is the kind that causes his ears to doubt their function and, eventually, his mind to doubt its sanity. The body rejects the nature of this artificial breed, or so he theorizes. At the very least, he — even as an appreciator and seeker of tranquility — does not resonate, cannot resonate, with this silence. There is no option to shed the tension, not even with an induced transformation, because of two obstacles in this room — one physical, the other anthropomorphic and unexpected.

"Doctor." Professor Fray straightens in a chair positioned a healthy distance from the sole bed in this cramped space.

Bruce squirms on the mattress — memory foam, he thinks. Before rising to even their stares, he comments, "This, uh...doesn't look like your office."

Fray grins, so nonchalant. "You'd be correct."

While he rights himself, plants his feet on the metal floor, he asks, "So would you like to explain what's going on?"

The opposing man mulls it over for a moment. For so long, the answers had been in front of him, through a screen, across a table. Though Bruce doubts that asking would've unlocked the information. If it had been that simple, Fray's tangential presence on the council would be unlikely. This isn't a council meeting, though; this is the professor's territory and Bruce is the rat in his crafted maze. Perhaps Fray would give him a clue as to the way out.

Conclusion ends Fray's contemplation. "That'd be polite, but it would open up a liability."

Irritation begins to tingle underneath the layer of tired in his flesh, and he can feel it seep into his voice. "Would it?"

"Potentially."

A shard of emerald jabs the right side of his sternum. He tries to ignore it and continue on. "Does that depend on your mood or, what?"

"It would depend on you." Fray says, infuriatingly brief. "My colleagues and I would like to incorporate you into our research. But that would depend on your consent. If we received it, you'd be free to leave this space, which would mean you'd be free to confide in others."

A vague image surfaces to expose the farce of it all, as if he needed a reminder. Two voices — Fray's, he now knows, and another still unknown — the fluorescence of powerful lights that vaporized the darkness behind his eyelids, the dull cranial ache, and the unexpected, somehow unstoppable transition into a beast that shredded his consciousness, his resistance, and his clothes. Thinking of it now, he becomes aware of the foreign fabric he now adorns and a soreness that rests in a bump on the back of his skull.

"It sounds like you're not gonna give me the option to consent." Bruce grimaces. "Not that you did in the first place."

Fray leans back in his seat. "That's not fair. All those kids gave their consent — they signed waivers. If they didn't read or think about the implications, that's their fault."

"I'm sure your vague wording was very informative." He says, very well acquainted with the nature of consent forms for experimentation, even experiments without official federal approval.

"Like I said, if they didn't take the time to analyze the choice they made, that's on them."

He lets his incredulity radiate uninhibited. "Have you met Berhanu and Lena? They never wanted to become what you made them. You manipulated them."

That doesn't get a blink from the professor. "I'm sure you never fathomed becoming the Hulk, but it has greatly enhanced your worth."

"My _worth_? What are people to you?" Utter repulsion drives him to stand, put as much distance between himself and this false doctor as possible in this chamber. "Do you think my life is actually better because of the other guy?"

Fray doesn't budge. "It depends on your definition."

"You're serious." He deadpans. "You have no idea what you're talking about."

It wouldn't require the Hulk's prowess for him to obliterate the arrogant sneer that coils onto Fray's face. "I'd like to think I know more than you expect."

A medley of throbbing green and hot red pulse through him. "Do you know that you're ruining lives? Or does that not bother you?"

"Careful, Doctor. It wouldn't be the wisest—"

"To what? Let you have a one-on-one chat with the Hulk? I think you two would really get along."

The contemptuous smirk drops. "This facility is underground and ill-equipped for an encounter with the Hulk. I'm more concerned about a collapse on both of us and Mister Solomon."

A cursory intake of the room affirms the statement — low ceilings, metal top to bottom, stale oxygen served from two vents. If they couldn't physically take down the Hulk, they could do the next best thing: trap him and dangle an innocent life over Bruce's head for extra assurance.

He sighs, suppresses the other guy who's itching to test the resilience of these walls. "What's your goal here?"

"I already…" Fray releases a prolonged exhale through his nostrils. "I empathize with Jung now." He mutters, not low enough to escape Bruce's hearing. With ease, the professor restores the cover of calm and tells him, "Simply, we're improving humanity. We'd like you to be part of that."

"You have a twisted definition of improvement."

Restrained exasperation puts a crack in the diplomatic exterior. Fray gets to his feet. "And you're not ready to cooperate. I'll check in later." A courteous smile plastered on, this self-proclaimed benefactor of humankind tucks the chair back into the petite table off to the side, nods to a camera in the corner, and departs once a hole in the wall slides open and shut before Bruce has the chance to debate running after him.

* * *

They don't have the software to track Akira, Chimera Gen hasn't touched the bugged plane since the collision that ended with Alma's corpse on the floor, and they've lost the backing of the council plus any resources they could provide. What seems like a slew of disadvantages to many, including Lenora, provides just the opposite. If Natasha's skills don't fail her, then, finally, tracking the owners of Chimera Gen won't be the biggest hurdle.

While Natasha secures a plane, Lena points out that these guys could be anywhere in the world, which is a correct yet inaccurate assessment. They could be anywhere on the planet, but they won't be. They have Bruce, need to secure Akira, especially after the loss two mutants in their custody, and soon they may know of Natasha's flight. What they would not realize, however, is that she has already deducted all this and more. While they settle into the comfort of safety, she's going to corner them in their burrow and put an end to this.

Regardless of their advantage, there's no time to waste away after their two passenger flight. Natasha retrieves her motorcycle, allowing Lena a nap while she does so, and returns within an hour. Their departure should take less than five minutes, but Lena hesitates before mounting the familiar vehicle, helmet in hand.

Natasha anticipates leftover apprehension from the first occasion on the bike and what transpired. What comes out, however, isn't self-doubt. Lena tells her point-blank, "I want a gun."

It requires absolutely no brainpower and very little technical training to answer immediately, "No."

"How am I supposed to do anything without a gun?"

"You'll figure it out."  
Lena tucks the helmet underneath her arm, refusing to board. "Or you could give me a gun."

In return for the indignance, Natasha leaves the kickstand raised, supporting the bike with one leg on the ground. In the interest of keeping this ludicrous exchange brief, she explains, "You have no experience with firearms. I'm not getting shot on accident."

Lena gives her a "duh" look. "Whose fault is that?"  
 _If you need to ask for a gun, you're not ready for the combat ahead._ Saying that would only guarantee some sort of rebellion, a more grave expenditure of time that they couldn't afford, that Bruce couldn't afford. So, instead, she offers a compromise, "You can have a knife."

For all of six seconds, Lena ponders this then counters, as if this a negotiation. "What about those shocky things you use?"  
"That's as bad as a gun." She deadpans.

"No it's not!"

She directs her scowl toward the open landscape ahead of them. Either it's the knife or nothing. Clearly, Lena fails to understand that if she didn't have any skill in hand-to-hand combat, then Natasha wouldn't have extracted her from S.H.I.E.L.D's custody. She could relay all this, rest here and squander away vital minutes, or they could take the argument on the road.

Preferring the latter, she orders, "Get on."

Eye for an eye, Lena ignores her wishes as well. She presses, "What about a taser?"

She snaps her glare to the young woman. "Why are you so obsessed with this?"  
"Why do you think?"

Lena deflates, helmet dropping an inch at her side. _I didn't forget,_ comes to mind first, but that's not going to conclude this stalemate. They could argue about the gun all day — Natasha could even acquiesce — but it wouldn't patch the actual issue here. At this point, reminding her of Bruce's welfare would only exacerbate the matter keeping them here.

Softer than before, she tells her companion, "Revenge won't bring him back."  
"But they can suffer like he did." Tension knots in Lena's jaw, down her neck. In this moment, loss dulls anything besides sheer malice.

Natasha eases the protective wear out from the hold that possesses it, sets it atop the head that's angled to the ground. From the interior of her jacket, she produces a knife and pushes it toward Lena. Whatever she'll do with her anger, with the grief, is up to her. Natasha won't hold her autonomy hostage.

She will, however, gently quip, "This is why you're not getting a gun."

It's enough to get Lena on the bike and send them careening forward to the address that houses Chimera Gen.

* * *

"What's the plan for when we get in there?"

The whipping wind requires Lena to shout; it's also discouraged conversation for the past hour and a half while they've flown down loosely monitored backroads. Lena fastens herself to the bike with a vice around Natasha's waist, as per usual. Her chin has come to rest languidly on Natasha's shoulder, which is a mild nuisance but ultimately not distracting — not yet. They should be arriving soon, and she won't have to tell her passenger to be alert and ready for action.

"The objective is to neutralize whoever isn't Bruce. The plan happens as we go." Natasha answers.

The point of a jaw shifts, a cheek brushes against hers. Lena's exclamation booms right in her ear, "But you aren't gonna, like, yell instructions when we're in there, right? Wouldn't that be bad?"

"That's why I'm not gonna do that."

"Then how am I supposed to know—"

"Have you been paying attention during training?" Natasha intervenes.

She can feel the deep eye roll that precedes the, "Duh."

"Then you'll be fine." With the warning that follows comes a shrug to remove the weight on her muscle. "Just don't turn into a hyena under any circumstances."

"You sure about that?"  
"These are scientists playing god, not assassins." Three scientists, according to the available information on Chimera Gen. Once she had their names, she had their research, their fields of interest, their academic and scientific affiliations. They probably thought the majority of people too impatient, too dull to surpass the barriers they'd placed before their identities. Natasha thought them amateurs at the game of clandestinity.

By no means is Lenora close to adept in combat yet, but she could deal with amateurs. Natasha tells her as much. "If you couldn't handle it, I would've left you behind."

Her companion snorts, "Wow, I'm touched."

A sharp yelp stabs her eardrum as she veers left, holds their speed steady through the final turn before their destination.

Concentration unrelenting, she shouts a piece of advice before their arrival. "Forget the emotions, Lenora. They'll get you killed here."

Without a beat comes a retort, "Right back at you."

With silence, they avoid further conversation and its risk of revelation. They zip into a plaza populated with squat office buildings, a few garages likely intended for auto repair, and a warehouse or two. The weight lifts from Natasha's left shoulder, the grip around her breaks into two clutches on her waist.

She doesn't let her gaze wander over anything but her target: the furthermost, single story building with a garage in the back. If there are any traps or cameras — the latter the more likely — they'll handle it. Live surveillance footage isn't going to help these men now, isn't going to keep Bruce in their custody. For that reason, she screeches to a halt in the building's sparsely occupied parking lot.

When Lena moves to get off, Natasha stops her. "Wait."

Lights illuminate the covers drawn over the scattered windows, giving the impression of occupancy. Once she kills the engine, the newfound quiet — or lack thereof — tells a different story. A shrieking hum radiates from the back garage — an improvised hangar, she quickly realizes.

So these guys weren't entirely flippant with their headquarters. They had invested in the security cameras.

Natasha cuts off a question from the back with the rev of her bike. She thrusts it on a path toward the back of the property.

The nose of the plane peeks out of its metal burrow. Too late for it to hide, it emerges at a trot, gaining speed as it hastens down the short driveway. As the tail exits, Lena screams, "Wait! Wait! There's someone back there! In the building!"

These men wouldn't leave Bruce behind. They wanted to monitor their experiment and would rather sacrifice one of their researchers than forfeit their subject. For that reason, she can also be fairly certain that Akira is on the plane ahead.

Lena doesn't get that, though, and lunges forward for the brake. To prevent them from toppling, crashing and scraping off flesh with gravel, Natasha slows the bike. The hitch gives the plane enough time to rush into the first stage of a takeoff, starting with the cargo ramp slowly lifting shut. Through the opening lies a large moving container and a man she knew to anticipate.

"What the shi—"

Natasha buries the utterance in an engine roar. She doesn't reprimand Lena for the interference, doesn't address it for now; she only rockets after the aircraft, set on preventing a repeat of before.

Over the clamor of warring turbines and engines, Lena attempts to shout, and loses to the mechanical bellowing. The ramp has risen too far off the ground for her bike to reach. Within, the bearded face of Professor Fray smirks at them as they approach, and he saunters further into his sanctum. Again, a yell rattles in Lena's sternum, reverberates into Natasha's back, but the jets garble the cohesion.

This can't happen again. They can't have Bruce, can't make him into what he fears, what keeps him running from the rest of the world. She won't let them.

Her new plan is to drive alongside the plane, find a window, shoot it out. Lena has something different in mind.

As she races underneath the craft's belly, unsteady hands clasp her shoulders, the weight behind her shudders and shifts. It's too loud for her to ask what's happening, but the answer comes when her tail wavers after Lena launches herself up and off. Natasha can't glance skyward to see if she makes it. Her stomach braces, waiting to hear a shriek, a thud, the crack of bones on asphalt that could fracture someone's being. Strings of helplessness tangle in with the apprehension; there's nothing she can do to prevent a freefall for Lena now. She's been rendered powerless, but not completely.

She will not lose two more allies today.

* * *

Fray's lie becomes apparent when the supposed underground lurches, the momentum knocking Bruce off balance. There's no point in banging on the door without a handle or yelling for Fray — even if the professor could hear him, the raucous would probably go ignored. That leaves him with two options: embracing green or waiting.

The door swinging open unlocks a third path, one he wouldn't call a choice, since Fray blocks the entrance and issues an order disguised under nonchalance. "You have a visitor, Doctor."

He channels Natasha's tact, evaluates the advantages of emerging into the unknown and staying inside. In truth, though, the prospect of escape — even if only temporary — has his insides salivating, legs shifting with unease.

A step forward defies the reluctance he tries to emit. "Who is it?" He asks.

"She's one of your friends." The smirk Fray projects oozes contempt. It doesn't deter Bruce from walking forward in acquiescence.

His emergence confirms his suspicion: his cell is not underground, but a metal box settled in the belly of what seems to be a cargo plane. To the left, toward the tail, lies the stiff, upright body of a redhead, although not the one he expects.

"Bruce!" Lena calls out, limbs welded to her side with some sort of invisible binds.

That's when he notices Akira, a man he's never seen before, and a noticeable lack of Berhanu or any place to keep him. Centipede legs scamper from his knotting stomach up his throat, despite him trying to tell himself, _Worry about that after. He's here somewhere._ A sapling of doubt sprouts, which he immediately shuns to the back of his thoughts. He has to worry about Lena right now.

"What—"

Fray overlaps him. "Transmit the frequency, Akira."

"I'm _busy_ ," the teenager retorts, fixation on Lena unwavering.

Without contemplation, Fray shrugs. "Then transmit it to her."

Again, a question forms and skids to a stop. This time, it isn't something verbal that stops him. In fact, to the naked eye, little changes. Fray makes his comment, Bruce begins to speak, then the unseen chains around Lena drop as she grunts, shouts, and collapses to her knees.

" _Hey_!" He barks at Akira. A sleeved arm shoots in front of his chest when he goes to move.

"Keep going." Fray instructs.

Lena lets her forehead smash into the metal ground. Her hands form a sort of autonomous straitjacket around her chest and she yells out a plea of, "Stop!"

Fray inserts his entire weight in front of Bruce when he makes to move once again. Green paws claw at the bone bars of his sternum, reaching for throat, torso — something to strangle.

Deep breaths keep the cage locked and cool for but a moment. There's too much surrounding them — Fray bodyblocking, Lena writhing and combating agony, the plane tilting into a takeoff.

"Stop it." Someone growls; he's not sure whether it's the man or the monster.

Lena must hear it in him somehow. She shouts, "Don't! Don't turn!"

This time when he attempts to sidestep Fray, a fist jabs into his diaphragm. He deflates, crumples in half, the lock within him jiggles loose, an emerald trickle begins.

"It'd be best if you returned to your room, Doctor." Fray says from above.

" _No_." A jerk in his spine drives him closer to the cold ground. Exhales are more akin to tiger snarls. He presses his palms flat to the floor and resists the spasms, the hurricane in his muscles.

Panting through inflicted pain, Lena screams at him, reaching for someone whose grip is slipping off a skyscraper's edge. "Nat made me promise not to turn — so you can't either!"

"A bit more, Akira." Fray orders his ward.

A shriek from her tells Bruce that Akira acquiesces to the command without hesitation.

Before succumbing, he tries to make a deal with the inevitable, _You can show your face, just don't hurt her, okay? She can't hurt you right now. Everyone else on this plane can. Let her go. Leave her for me, okay?_

"Please, Bruce!" Tightly wound exclamations beg. "Don't! _Please_ —"

The trickle bursts into deluge before Bruce gets a response from the beast.


	13. Chapter 13

**[A/N]:** Happy holidays all! Real quick, I wanted to give a huge, huge thank you to everyone who's been leaving lovely comments here, on AO3, and sending lovely messages to my blog (brucenat on tumblr). It positively makes my whole day when I get a message that's like, "I've read all your works and want more!" and/or you flail with me about Brucenat (and Lena and Berhanu, if you're reading this story). Truly, it's such a gift and I'm so grateful. I keep putting out Brucenat fic not only for my purposes, but because you all are so, utterly lovely. May you all find a glimmer of joy during this finale to 2018. Here's some Brucenat for you. :)

* * *

She has to bestow faith in whoever's piloting the plane, has to hope the investment in their amoral science trumps the fear of getting caught. A shattered window and Lena on board would have to be enough to ground them. In the interim, she swings her bike into a 180 and sets it on a relentless path toward the facility of Chimera Gen.

There's a single door in the back, probably locked. She doesn't waste time on testing the theory. A hand finds her gun. She barrels forward and makes her own entrance.

Spiderweb cracks in the glass shoot out around the bullet holes she puts through the window. There's a shadow of movement, a silhouette taking cover in the dark. Unfortunately for them, she's well acquainted with where monsters lurk. Squeals shriek from her tires as she applies the brake and launches herself off at a standstill. The puckered window yields to a kick. The inner dim disintegrates upon detonation of a flash bomb she discharges. While two men within curse and sputter, she brushes away jagged shards and launches herself inside.

Her impact nearly misses one hunched figure clutching a camera and its lens. The prospect of paparazzi will wait for now, until after she deals with the other man fumbling to his feet, blinking away blindness. One outstretched arm flails before him, as though it's the sword he waves at the enemies who outnumber him.

She doesn't risk the consequences of a physical encounter. Instead, an electrified disc spits out from her gauntlet, latches onto his forehead, and delivers a shock that makes him seize and froth at the mouth. Hopefully it rewires something in his twisted mind.

"I see civilian lives mean nothing to you." The remaining problem spits, adjusting his spectacles fruitlessly; his glare misses her by a fair few inches. "The rest of the world sure as hell won't agree."

 _This guy can't be serious._ She could end the hypocrisy right now, but she wants him to keep talking. This deluded bastard may just give her a reason to use her gun on him.

"If you kill me, I'm a martyr. There will be people lining up for these enhancements—"

Lena, Alma, Laura from Italy, and Berhanu project in her head as she unleashes a series of volts to his chest. Two dead and two to whom normalcy was extinct. This man before her spasms and writhes, eyes buglike in their bulging, fingers twitching against that which has hold of him, and Natasha can only think of how it isn't enough.

Her hand fastens around the grip of her gun, slips around the trigger without hesitation. Like so many times before, she points and pulls.

There's no gasp, no fleeting sigh, no grunt of pain. The camera falls to the wayside. It gives its life without fuss, only a few chips of glass and ebony plastic.

As for the men who dub themselves martyrs and gods, she conducts a quick search for some rope, punches them unconscious, and restrains them in reminder of their fragile mortality. Limp and tied up in separate corners of the room, she leaves them, turns to look for the plane that is now stationary on the ground. Even with the nose pointing at her, it's plain to see the back ajar. Again, she wastes no time finding or fumbling with the exterior door that exists somewhere in this building. Instead, she catapults out from whence she came.

This time around, she coasts directly into the cabin. During the short flight, the interior has undergone a transformation — the metal container and surrounding walls bear dents and gouges. From above, stale steam leaks into the space. There may have been a roar as she rode in, but the rev of her engine and determination in her chest muddied the potential sound. Unmistakable, however, is the discarded bike helmet on the metal ground and the blood streaks by its side.

Fear only nibbles at her steel mettle, for a familiar twang chases it away in an instant. "Nat!"

From metal ruins, her fellow redhead emerges. Angry pink handprints glow on her shoulders, exposed in the wake of singed fabric. The remnants of her shirt cling on with threads, and the same can be said for her hair, which lacks entire chunks on the sides of her skull.

Lena checks back, further into the plane's belly. When she deems it safe, she staggers out, feet dragging a bit with every step. Natasha meets her halfway.

They speak at the same time, Natasha starting with, "What happened? Where's Br—"

She lets the younger woman talk and deliver her information. "Fray and Akira and Bruce are somewhere in there." A hand waves wildly, aimlessly, behind her. "I got one guy in there, but…"

Pants and winces switch off their control. Training has given Natasha tools how to hurt and not help, so she can only watch and wait as Lena takes a moment to agonize over the burns on her shoulders.

"You need to...do the thing where you make the Hulk sleep," Lena says between exaggerated exhales. "I can't...I tried, but—"

"Bruce turned green?" ' _Make the Hulk sleep?'_ At this pace, there isn't time for any clarification. Lena fumbles for an answer, flutters a palm above one of her burns. Natasha cuts off the ramblings with a focused inquiry, "Can you run right now?"

The usual leap to an immediate response is more of a trip and fall. Lena's gaze goes somewhere beyond Natasha, somewhere beyond the present, and her mouth stalls like an engine. She tries to say, "I-I can, but…" At that point, Natasha has already seen the reflection of herself after her first encounter with the Hulk.

"Keep an eye on that." She orders, pointing to the container and whoever lay inside. A hand claps on the girl's arm — the part untouched by a scald — in dismissal and she takes off into the metal belly.

To her back, Lena calls, "But Nat—"

"Stay there," she reiterates, never looking back, hoping she had trained the novice how to save herself.

Even bounding off the walls, the bellows and roaring from within mark a quick path to the quarters where beasts battle. Reinforced bed frames, chairs, and parts of tables bend and crumple in the wake of the green titan rampaging. The volatile alter uses a fractured table as a bat, smashing chairs compacted into balls and other debris. Battered, one eye swollen, Akira scrambles away from each swing, deflecting what flies toward him with his psionic abilities. Meanwhile, Fray is nowhere in sight.

In the midst of rolling away from splintered metal, Akira latches onto the sight of her and shouts, "Hey! Look!"

The homicidal shouts turn to a warning snarl and a grimace when the Hulk locks onto her. For all of a heartbeat, blood stills in her veins.

In the second of distraction, a former seat soars into the monster's bulletproof skull, sent from Akira. The ensuing roar could make lions cower, rattles the ground beneath their feet. It's the only forewarning before he careens toward the reckless teen.

Already, though, she's fired her weapon. By the time the green guy starts moving, the bullet has pierced Akira's shoulder and sends out a spray of fresh red. The agony knocks him to his knees, has his head drooping toward the floor where he tries to bury tears in screams and grunts.

Hulk pauses long enough to smirk. Natasha seizes the moment to sprint in front of her victim — an act that stalls the beast a little longer.

When he growls at her, she doesn't run, doesn't itch for her gun. She snaps, " _Hey_."

A foot the size of her torso stomps a small earthquake. She resists the urge to evacuate and, somehow, finds the will to keep talking. "You can't kill him. He's still a kid." Underneath the green, the slight frothing, the glower, there's Bruce. Somewhere, trying to surface, trying to fix this, he's fighting, negotiating, compromising. There was a time when she'd made the mistake of appealing to the human. She's since learned how to soothe both man and beast.

"We've got bigger problems right now," She reminds him. "Remember the guy who did this to you? He tagged you so he can track you? He's somewhere on this plane, and he's gonna get away if we don't stop him."

Hulk paces in place, releases a guttural howl to the rest of the plane. He's an animal caught between dwindling prey and the hunter who shot him once before.

"Don't give them what they want, big guy." She lifts both palms away from her, displays their emptiness to him and coaxes him, "Come on."

She offers him one extended hand, shifts a foot forward in invitation. This decision, regardless of its stakes, belongs to him. It needs to belong to him, and she lets it.

The scowl falters into something solemn — a strange expression for this creature to wear, but not unnatural. Just like any other being, he too is capable of curiosity, of trust. He mimics her movement, the slide of one foot, the splaying of a palm. There's nothing violent between the canyons that line his skin. He shows her calm and she doesn't flinch when he closes the space between them with one, two half steps.

The seething groans at her back quiet to her. Akira's too fixated on his first gunshot wound to present a threat, or to realize that it's clearly unfatal. His presence drops from her fixation.

As colossal fingers near hers, she twists her forearm, forms a plateau on which one giant hand may rest atop hers. Hulk knits his brows at her, explores her features looking for the same thing she has discovered in Clint, Steve, now Bruce.

When he finds it, his hand drops onto hers and he lets her lead him away from the monster's den. She slides around, gliding over the rough skin — it's not quite reptilian like it may seem. It's not Brue's softness, shielded in gloves so often, but anthropomorphic. She drags her finger pads down his forearm to the tip of his middle digit, promises him that demons in the mask of man won't leech from him anymore.

Sure enough, all traces of expression drop. Eyebrows unknit, his jaw slides open. The only part that doesn't go slack is his spine; that straightens, discharges a shudder across his body. A shiver builds to ripples of muscle under a green surface. That becomes a riptide which takes the being to his knees, rinses off the layer of jade moss, brings Bruce back to her — back to shore. Hulk rests.

Bruce collapses into his palms, anchors his elbows to the floor, and rocks back and forth. It doesn't register with him that, while quieter now, Akira is alive, breathing, and there is no blood on his hands.

"Bruce." She folds her legs under, doesn't squat. This is just her and him, convincing him that he'll see the reflection of a human when he looks into a mirror, the reflection of her eyes. "Akira's alive. The big guy didn't kill anyone."

"How are you sure?" He mutters to metal.

"Bruce. Look at me." A foreign impulse radiates down her limbs, something odd yet not unwelcome. Regardless, she has to use her old habits to tamp it down, pack it away. What happens next can't be her tilting his face up to hers, a hand on his bare shoulder, their eyes inches apart with all the cracks softly twinkling in the overhead lights.

As if he knows this too, he raises his own chin, meets her gaze. She tells him, "Nobody died here today." Her hand turns to a fist that she glues to the floor. "Lena's alive because of you."

The measured inhales he uses to prevent hyperventilation hasten to something normal. For a beat, the brown of his irises slip away from her, to the carnage she's left in her wake — a teenager doubled over, clutching a gunshot wound. There's no inner dip of disappointment, no flinch from apprehension, only the assumption that he will return to her and see the monster that lurks within herself.

Instead, he returns to her like she's an oxygen mask. A little nod shakes his agape cheeks, sheds regret and terror until only level ground bridges their stares.

"Do you have Fray?" He asks with an idea of a whisper.

Only now does she realize her mouth had gaped open a bit. She closes it, then answers back, "No."

"What about Lenora? Is she okay?"

"Yeah." A knee comes up, muscle readied to stand. "Bruce—"

"Go ahead. I'll watch him." He assures, swiping a glance at Akira.

Her arm, the one with her palm splayed on the floor, comes up before she can snatch it away. It gets halfway to him before she reels in it, passes it off as her using it to help her stand.

As she turns back to the portal that leads to the rest of the craft, his voice lands against her back. "Nat." She snaps back to him, eyes instantly locked as if they had never broken contact. He says, "Stay safe."

"I'll let you know if there's a code green."

* * *

It's a quick endeavor in the process of elimination that brings her to the cabin before the cockpit. This isn't a Helicarrier — a small base engineered with aerodynamics. The plane is larger than a standard commercial jet by far, but nothing she can't sprint through.

Lena's stalled body obstructs her straight path to Fray, who's positioned before the cramped quarters, meant for a pilot who did not occupy the space. The pocket weapon at the young woman's side has Natasha ease to a halt a few feet before a collision. Despite Fray locking onto her for a moment and the slap of her boots on the ground, the two continue with her verbal showdown uninterrupted.

Somehow, a little grin is stitched onto Fray's face. "I feel that we can be honest with each other, Lenora." The texture of his tone has changed, transitioned to from crowd-pleasing to interpersonal. No matter his intent, it probably pisses off Lena more than she already is.

She snorts, "You would."

Gesticulation comes with ease, arms freely flowing as he speaks, regardless of the knife in Lena's hand, the gun at Natasha's side. "This mutation was supposed to greatly enhance your life. Especially for someone like you. I mean, let's face it — you weren't going on to do anything significant. It was unlikely you'd even go to college."

"It's still _my life_." Lena snarls.

Without a beat, Fray issues nonchalance. "And we gave it meaning."

"You gave me _cancer_!"

It's then Natasha steps forward, catches the arm that swings back as Lena prepares to lunge and launch forward.

Fray doesn't flinch, his posture doesn't falter. His sole input, "That was an unfortunate side effect."

Muscles shake under Natasha's grip. A shout follows, "Your side effect ruined my life!"  
"Frankly, there wasn't much to ruin." Ever calm, he tells her this as though he were reviewing lab results. "That's also why you received a mutation optimized for chimeras. It would've reduced the probability of this outcome, but you're a mosaic."

Though her hold tightens as her ally fights, repulsion brings her lip to curl and Natasha makes no effort to hide it. "You used her as collateral."

"Don't act disgusted, Miss Romanoff." There's a slight shake of his head, something an adult would do to a ridiculous child. To Lena, he says, as if to make everything less convoluted, more ethical, "Regardless of the cancer, your data has provided worthwhile information. It made you worth more than you ever could've made yourself."

The entirety of Lena's weight rushes forward, her upper arm twists against Natasha's thumb, away from the restraint. The knuckles clasped around the knife are white with determination, and there's not a doubt in Natasha's mind that Lena raises this weapon to kill. It doesn't matter what Fray may do to her — what the fallout would be. It didn't matter if this ended in her bleeding out on the floor, as long as it's her blood mixing with his.

It does matter, though. It matters if this adolescent becomes a killer, if she walks off this plane alive. It matters if she survives until chemotherapy treatments. She's not a nameless civilian, a walking target, a victim destined for a bodybag and the morgue — she is someone.

She is someone, and not because of what Fray and his cohorts did to her.

Now isn't the time to tell her this, however. She wouldn't listen. In fact, she doesn't get much farther than a foot away from Natasha.

As Fray thrusts a covered forearm forth, the texture of the atmosphere changes. With it, the barrel of her guns quiver in their holds. The knife that Lena wields wrestles its way out of her grip. It soars toward the cause of her cancer. Once metal fastens against the sleeve of his jacket, the air warps back to normal, and the knife falls into his waiting palm.

"As I said," Fray says without a chip in his impassive ice, "these are enhancements."

Without removing her glare, Lena growls back at Natasha, "Shoot him, Nat."

Before she can tell her why that's a terrible strategy, Fray cuts in, just like he always did during their meetings. "It's that kind of lack of intelligence that makes me sure that you would've died quickly, even if you hadn't developed the cancer."

 _Strength is so much more than being a smartass,_ Natasha thinks.

An outburst from Lena prevents her from saying as much. "I hope you fucking die and it's as painful as Berhanu's death was. And I'm gonna watch to make sure it hurts, you bastard."

A sigh gusts out, waves away the blatant threat and bloodlust. "I am sorry about the loss of Berhanu. He was incredibly promising. He was an actual chimera. If anything, it should be him standing here right now and not you." The first tint of remorse sours his nonchalance ever so slightly. "Mister Hanzo got carried away."

 _Sure, the teenager turned into an experiment is completely at fault here._

Lena starts cursing at her malefactor, but he smothers her quickly. "Anyway — I'm not quite sure what your plans for me are, but I'm certain I don't agree with them. So…"

If she shoots him, who knows where he could redirect the bullet. The electrified discs in her gauntlet would also be subject to his influence, and rushing toward him while he had a knife would be nothing less than foolhardy. Thus, she could only keep her grip on Lena's arm and watch as he rolls his sleeve up to reveal a strip of unblemished silver.

He points the knife toward them, releases, and the sudden shift in the atmosphere's gradient carries it across the gap. There's only a half second for them to react; Natasha folds her legs underneath and tries to drag Lena with her. The young woman begins a pivot and a shout of something incoherent.

That noise amplifies to a scream when the metal blade sinks into her exposed side.

Just as Fray likely intends, Lena crumples onto her ally, knife hilt protruding from between her ribs. Either Natasha eases her down or attacks Fray. There's seconds to decide as he hastens out of the cabin at a jog. Usually, as it had always been in her life, expectation would've let her ally fall and return to her later. This sacrifice was universal, whether made for the greater good, a mission, or a crime scheme.

This doesn't register with Lena, however; she resists abandonment. She collapses, seething, reaching for Natasha as an anchor into the earth. Then Fray exits and Natasha is still on the ground, clutching the folded body of a girl not yet twenty and so battered.

The shock allows him enough time to run out, escaping the range of her weapons.

"Lena—"

"I know!" She grunts through the agony. A whimper follows, "I'm sorry. I...please, Nat. I don't wanna die. Please."

The knife wedged in her flesh certainly certainly isn't in a fatal position; Natasha taught her enough for her to know that. The origin of this fear isn't the weapon in her back, though. Natasha can only assume that it's the image of dried blood from a boy turned corpse, of Alma — a teenager slightly younger than Lena — decaying before them as they searched a void for answers.

This is what the Red Room has numbed her to, and to that, she was accustomed. She would never wish it, never want it, would try to prevent that desensitization from happening to Lena.

She's failed. And Fray's going to get away while they sit in the middle of this room. The cycle would repeat.

* * *

After a few minutes of Akira groaning, crying, growling away the sobs on the floor, it becomes evident that the threat in this room has dissipated. Whether to go off and find Natasha and Lenora, potentially find a "code green" — that's a separate debate. Alertness takes the edge off the bodily exhaustion pulsing through post-transformation, but cannot dull the nuisance and discomfort that emanates from Akira.

On the ground, he moans, "She shot me. Your girlfriend _shot_ me."

 _He's trying to get under your skin,_ Bruce tells himself, clutching his knees to his chest. _He's doing it to get you to go green._ That he couldn't do, wouldn't do until he received word from Nat somehow.

Shooting Akira was the best course of action — she had to shoot him to save him. He knew that, he wouldn't take the time and effort to explain it to Akira, but he knew why she chose to do it.

The next time Akira spits out at him, "Hey! Your girlfriend shot me! _She shot me_!" A synapse in his head snaps.

At first, he growls into his legs, "She's not…" But he reminds himself, _He wants you pissed._ The Hyde in him snarls back, _Crush boy._ His internal yell becomes external, manifested in a bellow of, " _No_!" To the boy, he exclaims, "I know!"

Fury's beast takes hold of his fingers and ensnares his hair's roots. He succumbs to the pull on his skull, wonders if he could ever yank off the epidermis cover to reveal his brain. Maybe a good jab to the amygdala would make him disappear into an emerald trench, where he'd drown without sunlight. No more fear, no more worries, no more being someone else's experiment. It'd be just the monster.

The human still in him shakes off his own hands and scrambles to his feet, launches the encroaching darkness out of his mind. Just as he turns to the wall, the spot his forehead goes to rest, a figure filling in the doorway catches his eye.

"Hello again, doctor." Fray nods, as though civilized and rational. "I'll be needing Mister Hanzo here."

"They shot me!" Akira rolls over to yell. As if the insane professor could do anything right at this very moment.

An unimpressed exhale hums off Fray's lips. "I see that. We'll fix you shortly."

"You don't know when to stop, do you?" Bruce glowers at this man who disguises madness as science.

"This study isn't done. There are too many resources invested to end now."

Disbelief has him sputtering a bit. "It doesn't-doesn't it matter to you that you're ruining these kids' lives? You gave at least one aggressive cancer. Who knows how many more are going to develop similar symptoms. It's completely unethical." That was to say the least.

Two fingers rub the beard that traces Fray's jawline. "We got consent from everyone. You know this — it's not a secret."

"You tricked them! They had no idea what they were signing up for!"

For the first time since Bruce had the misfortune of knowing Nicholias Fray, exasperation leaked out and compels a roll of his eyes followed by an exaggerated shrug. "You're vastly experienced — you know the nature of scientific studies."

"I do — and those studies don't end in kids getting superpowers and cancer."

Fray hisses out frustration in a drawn out breath. "Clearly I overestimated your foresight for innovation." With Bruce dismissed, he makes a move toward the teenager still writhing on the floor.

"You don't want to take another step." Bruce threatens, pulse quickened but his rage even.

Fray condescends to say, "Don't be homicidal."

It now occurs to him as he contemplates in green: if Fray is here, Lena is elsewhere, that leaves Natasha and the other mad scientist unaccounted for. Apprehension and anxiety-inflated worries prickled goosebumps underneath his skin.

"You know you don't want to make me mad." He warns, not sure how to get out of this without spilling blood or recruiting the assistance of a beast.

"You're being ludicrous." With that, Fray extends a single arm and somehow summons a small army of former chairs in the form of balled up metal to surround him. In the hallway just beyond the doorway, a swath of scarlet hair and a black uniform appears.

Natasha keeps her arms locked tight, clinging to the glock in her grip. An understanding involving magnetism strikes Bruce right before metal does.

A knot of metal slams into his chest and propels him to the steel wall. Maybe his skull cracks on impact, maybe some of his ribs break. Jade spikes impale the edges of his consciousness and vision; they rob the sensation throughout his body. Fury and the sprint of his heart replace his senses. As his hearing submerges into empty numbness, a bang cracks from the front of the room, hits the sides with a quick echo. Then there's a tether, a voice that shouts, "Stay with me Bruce!"

When a body thuds to the floor, he can't tell whether the thud and groan that follows is his own or Fray's. The final stitches of cognizance unravel, slip out of his reach and the Hulk's. The only hitch comes when Natasha kneels down in her black jumpsuit, places a few fingers somewhere on the exposed skin of his arm. "It's over." She tells him. Ebony instead of emerald consumes his vision. As he fades, there is her voice saying his name, "Bruce." A brush of skin on skin becomes a gentle grip on his wrist, a tie to this form, and she secures him with a definitive statement of, "You're okay."


	14. Chapter 14

**[A/N]:** Happy MOSAICS...Tuesday? Yeah, I'm late. And this chapter is a monster. I'm so sorry :( If you follow me on tumblr (now brucenat !), you might've seen that I'm adjusting to some new meds, so everything got backed up. Again, I apologize, but know that y'all have the last chapter of MOSAICS and a few other fics coming your way soon. Thanks for sticking with me on this wild ride, all. Cheers :)

* * *

"State your name for the record."

No one besides her watches this interview unfold. Behind one-way glass, Natasha stands, arms crossed, lights off, watching Jones shuffle through a manilla folder as he feeds their ward questions.

"Cyrus Andrew."

"Your name is listed as one of the proprietors of the business Chimera Gen. Is that correct?"

"Correct."

"And do you acknowledge that Chimera Gen is responsible for inflicting minors and adults with various genetic mutations that did not pass any sort of federal approval?"

"...Yes."

"Do you acknowledge that Chimera Gen manipulated its subjects with the intent of inflicting these mutations?"

"We operated like any other scientific study."

"Which would mean yes."

Andrew holds his tongue. Jones consults his file and continues on.

"Are you aware of the effects these mutations caused?"

"Vaguely."  
"Were you aware of these effects when you made the mutations?"

"No."

"Were you aware of the possible risks?"

"Did we engineer a way to conclusively predict the future? No."

"But were you aware of the danger of DNA manipulation?"

"Genetics is a developing field. We don't know even close to everything."

"But were you aware—"

Andrew lurches forward on his elbows, baring his teeth and the spit that's collected in the corners of his mouth. "Why don't you ask me about something worthwhile? Hm? Something you can wrap your little mind around?"

"This...this would be easier if you provided me with straightforward answers."

"Or if you were competent."

Disastrous as this is, Natasha can't say Jones deserves the treatment. His compliance is aggravating, but the forces that command him are potent; they instill a subservience that brainwashes him into misguidance. It's a phenomenon with which she's not entirely unfamiliar. Then again, if Berhanu's death didn't rattle him into a different mindset, maybe, somehow, this will. Catalysts come in odd forms. That, too, she knows.

Behind the glass she remains. Considering Andrew's abrasive disposition, this is likely to be one of the least useful interrogations; hence, Jones' solo assignment.

She doesn't linger for much longer. Lena summons her attention with a text, _Bruce is packing :(_

It's not hard to leave Jones and Andrew behind. The conversation only progresses further and further into a stalemate, with Andrew flinging more and more insults at Jones, who has only a folder of evidence to shield him.

* * *

The fact that his belongings still fit into the same duffel bag surprises him. He wanted to get this out of the way first, before tackling the lab, but found himself pacing more than packing. The manifestation of anxiety is reaffirmed when Lena drops by, perches in the middle of his bed for all of eight minutes, then comments, "Is this some kind of weird meditation?" She leaves shortly thereafter.

He thought he would've finished before he saw anyone else again. After all, how long does it take to stuff a couple outfits and toiletries into a bag?

A presence in the open doorway shatters his expectations. The source of surprise is too appropriate.

"Leaving so soon?" Natasha sneaks between his joint's cracks, nests under his skin where all are usually forbidden. He jumps, but only at the unexpected entrance.

He turns to her leaning against the wall, a partially folded shirt in his grasp. "Just getting things together."

"Thinking about sneaking away?" To dispel the impression of judgement, she slips on a grin. He returns it, yet wonders what else lies beneath, if he'll ever know all of her. Over the past few weeks, Natasha has granted him the privilege of knowing more of her than most, or so he'd like to think. Any doubt he has is not the fault of hers, but the unanswerable question of why she'd let him know her.

He shakes away the beginnings of overthinking and responds to her, "Too much to do now." As he finishes compressing the shirt in his hands, he asks, "When do you take Lena?"

"Tuesday morning." She doesn't move from the entrance, leaves a gap between them from which uncertainty springs. It doesn't help that she asks, "What about you? When are you leaving?"

"Um…" Truth be told, he wanted to wait to hear her plans. "Not sure yet." Not yet sure why he was waiting, why he wants to coordinate departures, why he lets his stupid mouth open and spew out a ridiculous inquiry. "When-when are you going?"

"Probably the day after." She responds without a beat.

Trying to mimic her nonchalance, he nods, crosses his arms and then undoes the motion. "Do you know where yet?"

An eyebrow lifts. "Is that an invitation?"

His bones rattle, makes his ribs chatter. "Oh — no." As soon as it leaves his mouth, he hears rejection in his own tone. It's not there on his tongue or in intention, but she could interpret it that way. Him pushing her away. He doesn't want to return to not knowing her. "Unless you wanna come. You can—you're welcome to come...if you want to. I didn't mean to…"

Finally she moves, drifts over this strange gap between them. "Bruce. You're overthinking." A step away from him, she stops. "It's okay. I'm—"

"Sorry, I always—" He hadn't expected her to continue talking, and he walked all over her. _Good job, Banner._ "I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"

"It's _okay_. I get overthinking." She assures, solidarity and assurance stamped into a slight tilt in her mouth.

Relief gusts out in a smile. He dares to test the waters and say, "Is that why you don't know where you're going?"

"I never said that." She taunts right back. The admission following catches him off-guard, though proves yet again that no one could predict Natasha Romanoff. "I was with Clint before I came here. I might go back, if only to actually say goodbye." Something incomprehensible flickers in her irises, under the protection of forged steel. When she talks, he can't help but wonder if there's something unsaid. "What's your plan?" She asks so simply.

"Find a new spot to hide. Maybe Mongolia again."

"Or India."

A bubble of a memory takes shape between them. Neither stir; they keep it in the space between. Without meaning to, his volume drops to a near murmur. "I think it's monsoon season."

"Well," Her chin tilts. A decision solidifies, and she runs with it, "there is always Stark Tower."

Again — it's a mistake to try and estimate her. She presents an option he hasn't pondered at all, leaving him with the feeble response, "I dunno."

"Why not?"

 _Because I should limit my time in overpopulated metropolises_. He says instead, "I haven't been the best at keeping in touch." It's half the truth.

"You think Tony will mind?" She mocks the idea of the billionaire.

"He can be dramatic."

Her laugh, even if there is only one, feels like the first right thing he's done in a while.

"You have me there." She smirks, folds her arms, molds the shared atmosphere once more. There's an air of strategy when she suggests, "Still — I think he could use a lab partner."

"Yeah, but…" _But there's dozens of people he could bring in instead of me. And I'd rather not be the Stark Tower hunchback. It'd be a disaster waiting to happen. One wrong move and there could be millions of dollars in damages—_

She prods, probably detecting the onset of inner protest. "But what?"

 _But it wouldn't be the same..._ He doesn't let himself finish the thought.

"Nothing." He insists. "It wouldn't feel right." But it doesn't feel right to lie, either. Deceiving himself presents no issue, concealing his demons from the human population is a necessity, but she's not everyone else. Not anymore.

The way she looks at him makes him wonder — worry — if she knows that too.

In case she does, he now strays from the wandering discussion. "I should get back to...this." He says, gesturing to the pitiful thing that is his one bag.

"A very daunting task." Even with an indirect quip, she manages to call him on his bullshit. No further does she go, though. She sees him, wants him to know, but doesn't push, doesn't overstep. Of that, he is certain.

"When's the next interview?" He says over the growing dryness in his mouth.

She doesn't move. Not yet. Something about her locks him into place, at least until she takes the first step. She just says, "A few hours. It's me and the journalist."

"He'll never know what hit him."

"That's the plan." As she turns away from him, he catches a smirk that she permits onto her lips. There's absolutely no time to analyze, to ponder, since she backtracks out of the space. That leaves him with confusion, pure and bone deep.

* * *

As soon as she enters, antipathy lashes at her through a channel of petty, flat words, "You know the United Nations has policies against torture as an interrogation tactic."

She says nothing as she crosses to the other side of the sole table in the room.

"You can't touch me. I'll report you—"

"Sit down."

There's a hiccup of hesitation before Jacob Conan counters, "And what if I don't?"

"I can go. I'll take the chairs with me. I'll lock the door, and I won't come back."

"What — and leave me to starve? Is that it? You can't do that. I just said—"

"The U.N. isn't going to come looking for you here. No one's coming."

In his frustration there's furious gesticulation — angry jabs at the air in her direction, throwing his arms out, over-exaggerated shrugs. She maintains composure with arms folded before her chest.

He tries to rival her poise. "I want a lawyer."

"That's too bad."

The instant rejection shatters the momentary facade. "You can't deny me my right—"

"I can't deny you your human rights, but you and your accomplices can treat people like lab rats. Is that what I'm hearing?"

"That's-that's not what I said—"

"You didn't have to."

Stares clash. She isn't what casts a shadow — she is the darkness that consumes the foolish who wander into the dark. Conan paces a bit in place, afraid to move in this uncertain space.

"Am I staying? Or am I leaving you in here to rot?" She grants him this decision.

"I won't say anything without an attorney pres—"

His choice is made then. She starts for the door.

"You can't do this. It's against global convention—"

If she had a scrap of care or concern, that might get her to pause, maybe even prolong her leaving. If she was someone the Red Room had not touched, she may stay. Alas, she is the person who opens the door, slips out, and locks it behind her, leaving no regrets.

* * *

They have a plan: pack up the lab, export their data, secure any samples left. After the catastrophe, there probably isn't much left to consolidate. It's that catastrophe, however, that drives him to the conference room.

It's the phantom of Berhanu's blood on the floor, cleaned without incident by an agent. While he was in captivity, while Natasha and Lena were chasing down Chimera Gen, the council orchestrated the exorcism of Berhanu's presence, as if absence and pretending would make them all forget. No — it only pushed him here. This is one of the only places unbrightened by him.

Despite a lack of communication, Natasha still manages to find him here. Without judgement, wordless, she settles into a seat beside him. In ruminant still, they sit. Neither push the other to talk before they're ready, which they signal with eventual eye contact.

A simple check-in comprises the first exchange, an unspoken question passed from her to him, and doesn't go much farther. With newfound, quiet assurance, the second pause stretches on longer. They've grown somewhat accustomed to being around each other, and he feels it in the lessened awkwardness between them. Granted, there's still poorly time glances and goofy, spontaneous half-grins, and sometimes glances flee. No longer does shame dampen him when these moments occur, though.

Guilt does pay him a visit when she speaks next, and it strikes him that his fixation has wandered from revered remembrance of someone lost.

"Did you call Tony?"

 _What?_ Bemusement paints over the chagrin, freezes over his vocal chords until he sputters away the ice. "Was-was I supposed to?"

Natasha angles toward him, outstretches her arms before her on the table's vast vacancy. "It's your choice." She says, then, "But yes, you should've."

A sole laugh almost slips out. Apprehension lances the jocund bubble before anything good can stick. "I still don't know…"

"It would make it easier to check on Lena."

Though he swivels toward her, he pushes his weight into the back of the chair, thus tilting away. Through a strained exhale, he iterates, "It's still New York."

An eyebrow quirks in what is a classic move of hers, or so he's learned. "No one's gonna make you go clubbing."

"I know. I just…" He leans forward with the intention of propping his elbows on the table and burying his face, which he accomplishes. To a slate gray surface, he says, "It's an avoidable risk."

There's a hanging beat, then the feather stroke of two fingers tracing through the thick of his hair. One digit leads the way while the other trails behind with a path of numb to counteract the hypersensitization of his scalp in response to the unanticipated. A statement, unfazed unlike he is, emerges from his side, "How am I gonna visit if I don't know where you are?"

He suspends himself in a statue state, not fully knowing what outcome he desires. It seems the static inspires a retreat of the gesture.

As though to soothe a paranoia he knows she expected from the rest of the world, she reassures, solemn, "I'm not trying to monitor you or anything."

So she can see every bit of his expression, he turns his face toward her and assures right back. "I know."

For the first time, he catches a glimpse of Natasha Romanoff caught off-guard. Before he spoke, she had prepared further defenses. Without a need for them, a lift of her brows and slight widening of her eyes form an " _oh_ " look that sticks for all of a second's fragment.

Not trying to incite another surprise, but rather confess a truth he hadn't known how to puzzle into words, he tells her, "I hope I can be someone who you can trust."

In an uncertain moment, something shifts. He can't discern whether it's the stone that catalyzes a rockslide, the final degree before ice melts to water, or something else entirely. The time to ponder is scarce, seeing as the door snaps open and footsteps scamper in.

" _There_ you are!" Lena squeezes in as soon as the doors allow her. In her fist sits a laminated card of some kind, brandished for presentation. Once she performs a cursory onceover of the situation and ambiance, though, she comments, "Oh. Awkward."

If there's ever a time when violations of decorum and discomfort bring Lena to humbleness, that is certainly not today. Not now, when she charges on forward anyway, card in hand, dismissing any tension with a verbal wave, "Anyway."

Natasha swivels from him, designates his presence to her periphery. He's clueless as to the expectation between them, only sensing something off-kilter that there's certainly no time to address. Lena contemplates a chair on the other side of the table for all of two seconds before hopping onto the surface. A solid push propels her into their vicinity, back first.

"Look!" She proclaims in time with her spin toward them. Her fingers unfurl to reveal a mugshot of herself accompanied by identifying information, including a barcode and the title of "dependent." She flaps the badge like a country's flag. "Level three! That's higher than Jones! I bet it's close to you guys."

Natasha dives into her jacket to retrieve a fold of leather that she tosses onto Lena's lap. Eager fingers pluck and flip the cover back to reveal—

"Seven?!" An offended mouth gapes at the agent. " _Seven_?"

Natasha shrugs. "S.H.I.E.L.D's technically disbanded anyway, so it's all irrelevant."

The admission further unwinds the teenager's jaw muscles. "What?!" One hand drops Natasha's ID onto the table while the other throws her own down. "So then why the hell did they give me this?"

"There's probably still some medical resources old officials have access to. You'll probably need some sort of credentials. Right?" Despite the knot in his stomach that keeps him rigid, that specifically resists turning toward her, he consults Natasha for her superior knowledge here.

Without issue, she says, "I'd imagine so."

"So this is out of cancer pity?" A drastic eye roll causes her body to sway backward just a bit — enough for Natasha to flinch under the table, where only Bruce can see right now. It's a false alarm, only melodrama, which becomes apparent when she steadies out, looks down at the picture of herself, drifts into another state of mind. When Lena's expression falls, so does some of the euphoric pink in her cheeks. It's a transition that happens all too quick for comfort. Lena states, "D'you guys think...D'you think I'm gonna die?"

What happened before — whatever was said, what wasn't, and what maybe shouldn't have been — becomes devoid of any significance. Bruce and Natasha look to each other and, for perhaps the first time, he thinks he knows exactly what to translate from the contact. It's exactly what he's feeling too.

She starts and doesn't sugarcoat anything, "It's aggressive. Bruce and I are going to do what we can."

"But?" Lena prompts.

Their gazes stumble into each other again.

"You guys." Lena huffs. "What?"

He takes the baton. "The odds aren't...great."

Dewdrops swell and quiver over Lena's eyes. A hushed groan gusts out as she slaps the top of her cheek, as though issuing a warning to the reservoirs that threaten to break through a dam. For reasons unknown to him, she tries to keep her tone cheery when she talks, but it betrays her with a crack. "Why even try with treatment then?"

"You've come too far to give up." Nat tells her this like there's no other option, like the only path is forward and not off a cliff.

Her nostrils spring a leak — two limpid droplets that form a puddle in her Cupid's bow. "I haven't done anything. My whole life's been useless."

Those words reek of Fray. Bruce only knows what Natasha told him about the encounters on their plane, and she's divulged enough for him to recognize the external malignancy without doubt.

"What you did in the past doesn't make you worthless now." He insists, leaning forward so it's these words she hears, it's this sentiment she ingrains, and not something toxic.

In his vision's edge, Natasha's hair shifts with the slight nudge of her head, a look passing over him.

He can't decrypt it right now, especially since Lena asks the both of them, "So what should I do?"

"Fight it." Nat responds instantly. "That's an order."

The pause that follows is not one of thought, but of a very visible, visceral anger at herself. Tears roll down Lena's cheeks. These she doesn't bat away. They drizzle into her lap, her nostrils drip, and she does nothing but glare at her ID badge. Trains of thought crash in her head — that much he can see on her face, with her mouth screwed tight and eyebrows knitting deep wrinkles onto her forehead.

There's so much that he doesn't know how to say. How could he ever be the one to tell her to resist, to live? A grotesque beast trying to inspire — it seems inherently wrong.

It turns out he doesn't have to provide any inspiration. Out of her comes something less furious, less defeated than he anticipates. "I think Berhanu'd be mad if I didn't."

To that, he can respond. "He would."

* * *

"I became involved with Chimera's project after Nick reached out to me." Lionel's reclined into his chair, chatting away as though meeting with some friends at a cafe. "His colleagues have consulted my company before, but I didn't have the opportunity to work with him directly. We did take the same trip to Israel for—"

"We're not interested in your biography." Natasha inserts, icy.

"Fair enough." The paranoid, pompous likes of someone like Conan she could handle with ease. Thorne's nonchalance — the underlying flippancy — is downright irritating, especially since entitled obliviousness drips from every sentence that rolls off his tongue. "The concept was remarkable. Nick and Cyrus had the notion to diversify _hominina_ — to ingrain hierarchy into the human species. The idea was _empowerment._ Our subjects were supposed to form colonies, overthrow corrupt political structures, really change the world."

"How exactly did you plan to make them do that?" She asks. There's a bristle at her side from the other privileged male in the room, her fellow interrogator and supposed ally. She ignores Jung.

"We had planned to have transition happen in periods. There'd be acclimation, then recruitment, integration, so on and so forth until they could become autonomous again."

Jung observes, perhaps only to insert his own voice, "Autonomous under your supervision."

"That wasn't the idea. The subjects were projected to have favorable reactions."

Jung starts, "That—"

"How did you measure that?" She cuts to the chase, running over whatever her colleague had to say.

As with everything else, apparently, Thorne has no problem disclosing details. "Not formally, by any means. But imagine you just received superhuman capabilities — you could manipulate the Earth's magnetic field, or you could learn any subject in a matter of days or even hours. Wouldn't you think you should be on top of the world?"

"I know a few people who would disagree with you." She counters, voice low and level. This piece of work hadn't stuck around to witness the aftermath of his convoluted tinkering; that was left to her and Bruce.

His mouth stretches into a light grimace. "Well, I didn't want to point this out, but you _did_ interrupt the acclimation phase."

 _It's not just your subjects who would disagree._ She keeps the retort, the aggravation, the desire to shoot him, inside. _Not everyone wants to be extraordinary. You took away their choice. You destroyed their normalcy and comfort._ And she knows the monstrosity of that all too well.

Jung gets a word in, changing subjects. "Why use S.H.I.E.L.D as a cover?"

A shrug from their ward. "Funding, mostly. We framed the project as part of rebuilding the organization."

"And framing us as an operating unit of HYDRA?" Jung presses.

" _That_ was not my idea."

"You can still answer the question." She says.

His eyes almost roll. Instead, he shifts in place, crosses one leg over the other and insists, "I'd really rather not."

She lances her sentiment with accusation. "Why? You've been so eager to tell us all about your science project."

"Because that's interesting. That's actually relevant to something greater. What Conan did was—"

"So Conan handled the coverup." Jung affirms.

 _Can't say I'm surprised._

Genuine offense colors Thorne. "Out of everything we've discussed, _that's_ what you're fixated on? By the gods, this... _this_ is why the infrastructure of the world needs reworking."

She smirks and lets it show. This guy thinks he knows how to fix the world when he hasn't even scratched the surface of its dimensions, its trauma.

Jung continues with this line of questioning, "I'm just a little perplexed why your accomplice worked so diligently to cover up something you've been talking so openly about."

"You make it sound like we did something criminal."

"Maybe because you did." She suggests, projecting calm.

"Excuse me?"

Jung begins to warn her. "Agent Romanoff—"

Before she can put him in place, Thorne leans forward, weaving his hands into one collective fist. "I hate to be so blunt, but there is a reason Doctor Banner was chosen for our project and not you."

"This isn't a matter of jealousy. Nothing you say or withhold is gonna change what happens to you." Nat informs him, cool and blunt like a sword pommel.

"I...let me…" The fist fidgets, twitches as one mass. "Are you threatening me?"

Jung attempts to recover. "That's not our intention, Mister Thorne."

"We didn't do anything wrong here. This is an incredible feat — we've _done_ something incredible. I mean, for the love of...we're molding a new _species_."

"Without proper consent." She throws in for him.

A wild furor lines the rim of his gaze for the first time. Her stare, her smirk — they don't relent.

Thorne seethes, fighting the feral within, "With all due respect — you need to keep your place in mind. You have absolutely no grounds to criticize us and—"

Misogynists. Now she's in familiar territory. "Chimera Gen used technical loopholes to take advantage of minors and young adults." She lays reality out for him and doesn't let him or Jung smother her. "You altered their biology and gave some of them incurable diseases — all so you could play God. And to avoid the public scrutiny, you used S.H.I.E.L.D's name to make yourselves seem ethical. The reality of the situation is you destroyed the lives of these kids. What you did killed some of them. It gave some of them cancer. At the very least, you made it so they'll never lead a normal life again. That's not revolutionary, that's borderline psychotic."

His chin sinks toward the table, toward his balled hands, and he growls like a cornered wolf. "You have no _goddamn_ idea what you're talking about, lady—"

"I do. I've stood in a lab for weeks watching your mess unravel. I know exactly what kind of monster you are."

Jung tries to rein her in. These past few weeks have not shown him that he'll never have that ability. "Agent Romanoff—"

She pushes up and away from the table, her eyes never leaving Thorne. There will be no mercy, no sympathy for him, and she wants him to know that.

"You can wrap up. This is over now." She leaves the both of them behind, shutting the door without apology or temptation to look back. There are more pressing matters outside of a room with two oblivious men who can only exist within their own crafted alteration of reality.

* * *

The car may disappoint Lena, but there's no way Natasha's going to stick her on the back of a motorcycle in this state. They deplane, switch vehicles, and get the road trip going. Despite comments about the lack of coolness in a car, Lena's probably grateful for the switch when she passes out for the first forty-five minutes of the trip. Before this, her sleep habits were sloth-like by choice, but now she could barely keep herself up and alert on less than ten hours a night.

The new facility is far from finished, but it'll be a roof over her head, a haven where she can recover and regain strength and spunk. Natasha and Bruce, in collaboration with the council (Agent Liu, mainly), organized a room for their young friend, recruited a top tier oncologist who signed a vow to secrecy and a large sum. Plus, she and Bruce promised to visit to monitor progress and keep her company. Something tells her that Lena isn't going to be the most compatible with the few agents stationed at the facility, especially since one of them is Jones.

They're deep into the New England countryside, cruising where others seldom wander, when Lena's breathing pattern shifts. The window supports the weight of her skull, and it's there she remains for a few minutes, probably staring at the great vacancy enveloping them.

Natasha has to ignore the red circle on Lena's forehead when the young woman turns to her. "How close are we?"

"It'll be another twenty or thirty minutes."

"Got it." She readjusts, rubs the glowing spot on her head that rested on glass. For a moment, she contemplates the radio, then decides against any tampering. It's for the best — they are well outside the range of most public broadcast frequencies out here.

A sigh coasts out of Lena as her legs stretch forward. Natasha's contemplating asking the platitudinous question of how her sleep was when she comes out with a completely different inquiry, "Bruce _is_ gonna check on me, right?"

Bruce telling Lena of his plans to go elsewhere, to not join her at the facility, had incited a small explosion. In the past, that would've meant a screaming litany, maybe running away to perform some reckless act. This time, she had yelled at him, furled an accusation at Natasha, and then retreated to nap for six hours.

Thankfully, her fit passed in time for her to say goodbye to Bruce. Her apology to him was a hug she gave before she and Natasha left the plane.

"Of course." Natasha assures, looking to her so she knows the truth. "We both are."

A little grin spreads. "Good." With that guarantee, she props her feet up on the dashboard, pitches her seat back a bit. Reminiscent of one of Clint's kids asking for a cookie, she requests, "Can we train when you come visit?"

"Lena…"

"I know the chemo's gonna make me super weak and tired. But if I don't. If I'm feeling really good. Then?"

Natasha doesn't respond to the puppy look thrown at her. Skepticism drives an eyebrow up for a moment — long enough for Lena to see — then she replies, "Maybe."

Pouty, Lena doesn't relent with her stare. "'Maybe' always means 'no.'"

"It means we'll play it by ear."

That seems to be enough for the younger woman. "Kief."

A dip in the land takes them down toward the barrier of the thick wood — the lengthy, forested entrance to Lena's new place of residence. The pavement will soon give way to gravel, then a dirt dead end. This, Natasha already knows. She's also aware that this is a facade, and the pavement resumes after a bit of off-road maneuvering.

"So are you staying with Bruce?" Lena asks out of nowhere.

She presses on a light smile, "Not right now." _Why would I?_ Even in her own head, she doesn't like the tone of that, and she corrects herself, _Why would she assume that we would stay together?_ That doesn't sit quite right either.

Oblivious to this, Lena continues pressing, "I thought you said you guys were gonna come visit."

Natasha can't see the correlation that seems so apparent to the other woman. "We are. Just...not together."

"Why not?"

As they approach the copse edge, she cuts to the chase. "What are you getting at?"

"I dunno. Just...I don't know. I'm not good at explaining it." Though Lena lapses into wordlessness, Natasha knows her better than to assume she'll drop the issue now. This is proven when her companion resumes, "You make him calmer. You work well together."

"That's what being a team is." Is this what Clint and Laura feel like when they have to lecture their kids?

Unconvinced, Lena says, "I guess. But you guys have a different vibe."

 _What's that supposed to mean?_ "You haven't seen us with the other Avengers."

That gets a longer pause from the teenager. Instead of blowing up or childish insistence, she steps back, reevaluates. Her conclusion arrives as they enter the forest's canopy shadow. "Okay. Do you go check on the other Avengers when they don't eat or sleep?"

"The other guys don't do that." Thor forgetting to eat or Tony losing out on some beauty rest almost gets a snicker out of her. She suppresses it to a smirk.

Lena keeps adding, "Do the Avengers have late night talks?"

 _How does she know about that?_ Nat eases up on the gas, not only to prepare for the transition to gravel but also to shoot a suspicious look at her passenger.  
In that glance, Lena can see that she's messed up, possibly crossed a line. She switches to something else, and it's not much better. "Can the other Avengers put the Hulk to sleep?"

Here, she could absolutely stop this line of questioning. She could refuse to answer, switch focus to Lena or something else entirely. Evasion, after all, is just one tool of many in her skillset. Lena isn't a threat, though; she's a subject of curiosity, and so is Natasha in this moment.

"Why do you frame it that way?" She asks in reference to the handful of times when Lena described de-Hulking as going to sleep.

That stumps her again. "Because." She states vaguely, settling into her seat and fixating on the shaded path ahead. When Natasha takes a left away from the dead end, Lena doesn't make a fuss. Her contemplation goes uninterrupted.

Natasha flicks the headlights on, floods the unknown with light. She navigates around trunks and brush on this path rarely taken, and Lena lets her without question. After a brief musing, the young woman produces an answer, "Berhanu called it a lullaby."

Both keep their gazes ahead, fixed on what they expected, but could not yet see.

"He was so much better at describing it. He said you always made Bruce feel peaceful. The way your minds work in, like...he had a word for it. I don't remember. But your minds complement each other. It's really good."

Lena crosses her ankles once, the other way, then decides to retract her knees toward her chest. She straightens in her seat, folded in half, and props her chin on the table her knees provide. Natasha fixates on her, then on the woodland labyrinth ahead. This is not the time to reflect and analyze. Truth be told, she doesn't know where she would start, or if there was anything to ruminate on.

Her psyche betrays her, whispers, _That's a lie._

But, at least for now, she doesn't explore any further.

When Lena does look at her again, it's to ask, "You're gonna keep texting, right?"

"Yeah."

She doesn't know who specifically Lena was talking about. They keep driving in silence.

Natasha focuses forward, eases them over the various dips and bumps of the forest. She doesn't know if the rocky path aggravates any of Lena's symptoms, though she notices her passenger return her forehead to the window. The interior door accepts the weight of her curled body.

Whether Lena succumbs to sleep again, they lapse into a silence that lasts for the remaining few minutes. When sunlight breaks through the dark, so does it dissolve the quiet.

The pavement accepts them with little disturbance. The slight rock makes Lena lift her attention to the windshield, through which the exoskeleton of the developing facility is on display. Before them looms the cement and steel-reinforced warehouse that's to house the teenager for the duration of her treatment. Currently, neighboring the construct, there's one landing pand and it's occupied by a helicopter bearing the S.H.I.E.L.D emblem. A few dormant machines lie around the site of additional future installments.

The sight elicits a small, "Whoa," from Lena. They cruise forward, toward the mouth of the garage's tunnel that swallows them. She adds a mutter of, "Sleek."

They have their pick of parking spots out of the dozens of vacancies. There's a handful of vehicles congregated around the main entrance of three, which Natasha joins. Once the engine dies, they emerge into the outside space, with Lena retrieving her sole bag of possessions from the back.

"This is a remote location. Heavily cloaked, off the grid, known to less than a hundred people in the world." She tells her companion, pausing at the vehicle's side.

Lena props a hip against the metal vessel, drips a little sarcasm, "Fun." She surveys the plain garage and all its emptiness. "Seems like a lekker place to lose your mind."

The idea of solitude presenting intimidation fascinates Natasha, though she knows it's a common feeling outside of her personal sphere.

That's not something to dive into right now, however. She assures, "It's secure."

"Yeah." Lena says to the bag in front of her legs.

For a moment, they hang in a quiet undefined. The plan was to drop Lena off here. Inside there's supposedly an escort waiting to show her to the medical ward, help her settle in for weeks — likely months — of rigorous treatment. Bruce had shown Natasha a rough schedule — chemotherapy partnered with a alternative drug therapies, weekly physicals, biweekly oncological exams and imaging, a diet based in bland foods plus fruits and veggies. The sheer amounts of planned bed rest may be the only redeeming factor for Lena. That, and the promised visits.

Natasha wonders if that's what the teenager's mind drifts to now, as she clings to her sole bag of possessions and stares at the cement supporting their feet. A decision sparks, strikes a match on the previous agenda for this parting.

From a concealed jacket pocket, she produces a knife. "Take this."

The other woman's stare switches, blank to bemused, from cement to the folded blade. "Is this the one that stabbed me?" Amusement and disbelief tangle in her tone.

"Yep. And you're going to train with it. You're gonna make sure no one ever uses that against you again."

A hand doesn't reach to take what is offered yet. Still, Lena looks on. "But you said—"

"It doesn't take much to stab someone. Just keep it sharp. You know where to aim."

Just as she wonders if she has to grab Lena's palm and physically meld her grip around it, her companion places her bag on the ground. Fingers more tentative than she's seen from her brazen friend wrap around the metal, accepting its weight.

Lena brings the tool to her chest, pays it more mind than Natasha expected. To it, she asks, "What about...what if I'm not strong enough to stab someone?"

A fair point, seeing as her body is about to endure a medical gauntlet. The solution also lies in Natasha's jacket, from which she pulls a canister of mace. "Then you use this. You spray and run away."

Lena deadpans, "If I'm not strong enough to stab someone, how am I gonna run?"

She hadn't meant for this to turn into an impromptu training session; yet, here they are. "You don't question if you can. You just go." She instructs.

The intimation of a smirk pokes at the corner of Lena's mouth. "Not as a hyena, right?"

"You got it."

Natasha takes a small step forward, mace still in hand. She pulls the knife from Lena without protest, slides it into the young woman's pants pocket. Her current outfit doesn't afford many alternatives. For that reason, Natasha crouches to place the pepper spray into the bag.

As she rises, Lena admits, "I really wanna hug you, but I feel like you're not a hugging person."

 _It's not a habit I ever learned._ That's a whole mess and a history Lena didn't ask to get into, so Natasha just pulls her friend close instead. Positioned over the bag on the ground, they hold onto each other for a moment, Lena with her hands clinging to Natasha's shoulders.

This, too, is something Natasha's getting used to. As more sources of trust enter her life, she learns to reciprocate. Slowly, but she can start with kisses on the cheek, then friendly embraces.

The thing about hugs, though, is that she still hasn't gotten an idea for adequate hugging time. She's not sure who's to initiate the pull away. In this moment, she thinks it should be Lena, but cannot come to a conclusion.

"I'm scared." Lena murmurs, adjusting her grip without retreating. She whispers like she's trying to hide from reality. "I really don't wanna die, Nat."

Natasha imparts upon her the simple guideline she lives by, the first instinct programmed into her. "Then fight like hell."

Lena accepts this with a nod and releases her. Her gaze turns down to her bag, but her fixation lies elsewhere.

A request, still quiet, comes, "Can you come with me? Inside?"

"Yeah."

A sigh releases the tension in the younger woman's chest. She picks up her duffel and lets Natasha lead them into the facility.

* * *

The following day takes her back to the aircraft, and back to interviews with men who wanted to design a new world. Today, she's brought back to their ever so friendly journalist, who's been in confinement without food.

He greets her warmly when she enters. "What you're doing is inhumane."

"Hello to you too."

As she situates herself, he berates her. "I haven't eaten in over twenty-four hours. All I have to sustain myself is _this_." Refusing to sit, he holds up the jug of water brought from the mess hall.

Uncaring, she responds, "Good. You won't die of dehydration first. That'd be a little too quick for our purposes."

"Are you—are you listening to yourself? Do you realize how absolutely mad that sounds?" He sputters, slapping both palms onto the table. "Is this being recorded? I hope it is. I hope someone hacks into your organization and leaks this. You're—"

"The paranoia's not gonna work on me. We both know you'd be screwed if this conversation was leaked, not me."

"We were trying…" Conan censors himself into silence.

"If you want to wait for a lawyer so you can talk, you'll starve to death first."

"You're morbid."

 _Maybe. But then what does that make you?_ "It's your choice."

To the corner farther from the door, he paces. There, he rakes his hands over his head, then turns around. "Fine. What-what do you want to know?"

"Sit down."

He does so. The growl he gives her loses its edge in his desperation. "What is it you want from me? Is it the science? I wasn't involved in that—"

"Let's start with Chimera Gen."

"Well, obviously you know who owns the company. That's publicly available information."

 _Technically. Publicly available information that you knew no one would look for until it was too late._

"And you're not listed as one of them." She says.

He shrugs at her, as though she's the one who's cornered. "Because I'm not."

She reminds him of his standing, telling him bluntly, "I think we both know that's bullshit."

"You can't prove that."

Even though she doesn't need to, she proceeds to illustrate for him just how screwed he is. "You were apprehended in Chimera Gen's facility as two owners were fleeing. We already know you were meeting with Cyrus. We know you had Akira in your custody, and you travelled to Japan to report on him." The reports that gave Akira so much confidence — the ones that Berhanu had pointed out — are just one example of Jacob Conan's background orchestration. He wants to act innocent, to shrug off the influence of an enabler. This isn't a courtroom, an arena of public opinion and technicalities. In this moment, this shred of S.H.I.E.L.D's territory, it's her versus him.

Despite all this, she reminds him, "I don't need to prove anything. You'd be screwed if I did."

"Then what exactly do you intend to do with me?"

Only in her brain does she lay out her truth, _Ruin your life like you ruined Lenora's. Shoot you and watch you bleed out like Berhanu did. He died alone. You deserve that, and worse._

She pushes away from the table and stands. "It's out of my hands now."

Wild eyes stare up at her. "What does that mean?"

"It means you should be grateful."

She goes to leave, to continue cleaning up this mess he's made.

To her back, he calls, "You're just — wait. Wait! Where are you going? I need to—"

But she's gone.

* * *

They don't hide the fact that they're packing up and taking Lena and Berhanu's data; they're simply not telling anyone.

This is his final order of business as S.H.I.E.L.D's vessel cruises toward the point of his departure. Back to Mongolia, back to the village to the mother and daughter he never said goodbye to. Usually his partings are abrupt, but only after completing his work. There are loose ties back in the remote community — patients to check on, a few guarantees he'd like to fulfill. He has to put his mind at rest — as much as is possible for him, anyway — before heading to wherever would conceal him, need his services next.

Natasha hasn't brought up Stark Tower in the past few days, not yet. Right now, they make idle conversation. He thinks he's boring her with aloud musings on how science influences the beliefs of various cultures, or the vice versa. That is, until she actually responds and incites an onset of stifling self-consciousness that proceeds to silence him. He'd apologize for rambling, but he doesn't think she'd accept it.

Natasha approaches the counter at which he stands, armed with a cooler of the few samples that remain — traces of the two young adults who surrendered themselves to S.H.I.E.L.D in hopes of help. Now that Fray and his cohorts are in custody, however, the council organized for Lena's illness to be someone else's problem. Berhanu they didn't have to worry about; Bruce still doesn't know what became of the body, and fears his own reaction if he's told the assuredly aggravating truth.

Regardless of these injustices, he and Natasha won't let Lena slip through the cracks, won't forget Berhanu. After some digging, she'd found his parents and three siblings in Ethiopia. It's not her job to inform them of their loss, but something she's volunteered to do, especially when considering S.H.I.E.L.D's purposeful negligence.

Beyond that, he's not sure of where they're both headed after their personal missions have concluded. The only certainty right now is collaboration in the form of visits to the nameless new facility.

Natasha turns her body so that her hips rest against the countertop. Arms folded over her chest, she cracks the quiet to tell him, "The council's gonna offer Fray a deal."

Well, that definitely gets his attention. Where the hell did this come from? He removes his arms from the box they're submerged in and places them on the flat, solid surface to anchor himself.

"He goes free if he designs a gene therapy."

"What—"

"If you tell them you'll work on a therapy and show them your plan, maybe they'll take it off the table." She's angled toward him, not imploring, not insinuating, but intense nonetheless. "It's a longshot, but it could work. Especially now that Jung doesn't have as much of a say."

They can't — there's no way Liu and the others can possibly trust any ethical science, any life, any remedy to a conniving, to an imperious tyrant with tenure. But how's he supposed to counter, to be a viable alternative? Fray designed this plague — he had the means and intellectual backup to do it. What did Bruce have?

He admits as much to her, "I don't know where I'd start, or where I'd get the resources—"

"Call Tony." She proposes, so sure. And he knows she doesn't mean to insist, but rejecting this option again comes with guilt. That, she must see, because she assures him, "You don't have to do this. I'm not trying to pressure you, but I know you don't want anyone to suffer because of Fray anymore."

 _But if they aren't suffering because of Fray, are they suffering because of me?_

Though she's not aware of the inner workings of his mind, Natasha doesn't allow time for him to dive into that mental sinkhole. "Stark Industries is your best bet — but only if you want to go through with it."

It is a choice, not a corner. It just feels like, no matter what decision, someone's at risk, someone's in danger because of him.

Her gaze explores the worry surely engraved all over his face. "Bruce—"

"I just wanna do what's right." He tries to conjure a laugh to wave off the apprehension, but winds up choking a bit on it and swallowing hard. "I feel like I'm designed to do the opposite."

"Is that why you hide?" She asks him point blank.

He looks at her and, in his thoughts, asks her right back.

"There isn't a right answer." She concludes, backtracking. Her straightened locks brush over the top of her shoulder when she tilts her head to one side. "For what it's worth, I don't think you're capable of doing anything but helping here."

"I don't know." How can she be so sure when he isn't?

She doesn't relent, doesn't release him from the amiable but forthright scrutiny in her stare. "Why is it so hard to believe that?"

He channels the dubious question of, _Really?_ into the look he shoots at her. Can she really overlook the green mixed with blood and bruise purple splattered all over his past?

Picking right up on that, she concludes, "You're not the damage he's caused."

"Aren't I?"

"No." She says, quieter this time, but resolute nevertheless.

Maybe to distract, maybe out of genuine care, he turns things back on her. "Are you ever gonna believe that about yourself?"

There's a little shake of her head, something she buries underneath a pressed smirk. "That's a different issue."

This has almost become routine, like a private game between them. Never is there an end, just a perpetual back and forth. "Is it?"

"It's a topic for another time."

His eyebrows lift, and he's not sure whether the driving force is a little surge of hope he quells or surprise. Whatever it is, it's gives him a few embers of warmth to hold.

She takes the neglected cooler by the handle and drops it into the box's vacancy. Two external harddrives and his coat occupy the rest.

Not ordering, she requests of him, "Let me know where you are."

It's easy to tell her, "I will," and know he won't be someone else who deceives or uses her.

She moves to him, keeps a hand on the counter as she places a her mouth on the point between the edge of his jaw and ear, and he certain that she knows he's trying to be someone she can trust. He doesn't, however, know what to interpret from the look that follows when she pulls away and pauses centimeters from his face.

Neither asks any further questions, nor offer anything beyond simple comments, as he negotiates the flaps of the box closed and they leave this space behind.


	15. Chapter 15

**[A/N]:** Holy hell everyone, we're at the end. Thank you, thank you, thank you for reading this story, for the love you have given it, for the willingness to invest in these characters. It was wonderful to write this and share it.

After the last chapter posted, I got a gem of a sexist in my comments (on AO3). So, before we get into the last installment, let me make something perfectly clear:

I will always approach writing from a feminist standpoint (among other things). It's not about "oppressing" men, it's about all lives, all genders being equal. That goes for sexuality and race too.

My work is not for misogynists. Not now, not ever.

Misogynists and all other flavors of bigots: feel free to boost my stats with ignorance if that makes you feel a little less inadequate than you already are.

For the majority of you who are loving, sensible people: you have my love, my thoughts, my art, my devotion. Thank you for existing.

Let's finish this shit.

* * *

For the last interrogation, Natasha remains in the observation room. Agent Liu handles this solo.

There's a few preliminary questions from the agent before the subject raises one of his own.

"Who's behind the glass?" Fray asks.

The jacket he wears conceals the bandages she knows to be underneath. Her shot wasn't fatal, unfortunately, but enough to hospitalize him for over a week.

Liu shoots him distaste packaged in a glance.

Probing eyes scour the one-way glass, try to give an impression of panopticism. Natasha knows his self-inflicted mutation involves magnetics, not X-ray vision.

Without looking to his interviewer, he says, "I doubt the entire council is back there, but I'd be surprised if there weren't any witnesses."

Liu steers them. "Let's get back on topic."

"What don't you already know? There's a reason you waited so long to interrogate me." He spiders his fingers together, thinking as though presented with a riddle. It's as though this is no different than any other council meeting for him. All those occasions where they brainstormed and postulated, and he sat behind a screen with the truth while he spewed an artifice.

"I can guarantee Lionel gave away mostly everything about the science. I bet Cyrus gave you nothing." He concludes. "Jake is more difficult. It depends who you sent in with him. Personally, I'd have commissioned Agent Romanoff."

"All I'm at liberty to say is that we know almost all of the details about your company and its project thanks to your colleagues." Liu divulges. "We arranged this interview to offer you a deal."

Intrigue sparks. Fray leans forward, grinning through his musing. "If you supposedly know about everything, what are you hoping to bargain for?"

"A database of your subjects. Genetic therapy for each and every one of them."

A hand runs over Fray's facial brush. "What's the exchange?"

"You avoid a life sentence."

A chuckle slides out, painted with a tint of contempt, "You're not going public with this."

"You know we have our ways, Nick. There will be repercussions." His tenure, his lab, his current projects — those are not untouchable. Liu knows that, Natasha knows that, and, somewhere within him, Fray must realize that too. For months, Chimera Gen could fly under radars with no questions asked thanks to Fray's position and esteem. Though S.H.I.E.L.D is now but a shell, a concept torn between extinction and redemption, it still overpowers the free passes granted by Fray's various privileges.

"I see." He eases back into his chair. Stone solidifies in his cheeks. Without flinching, he says, "There is no cure."

 _Bullshit._

Liu doesn't believe it for a second either. "You altered their biology. I'm sure there's a way to reverse engineer the effects."

"Brenda — you recruited me for a reason. I'm advancing the field of genetics more than anyone else has done in their lifetime." He says so casually, "When I say there's no cure, there is no cure."

She insists, "You just said it yourself — you're the leading geneticist in the world right now. You can engineer a way to fix what you did."

"It's not feasible."

This is a game Natasha knows well, an old practice of hers: the twisting and play of words. Bastard.

"Well, Doctor Banner disagrees."

There's a light scoff at this idea. "Banner's specialty is nuclear and gamma, not—"

"And biochemistry."

The interjection offends him. "That's not the same."

"It doesn't change the fact that Doctor Banner thinks it's possible."

Exasperation twitches at the edges of his eyes. "It's _possible_."

 _There we go._

"You just said—"

"I said it's not _feasible_."

Liu channels her exasperation through a sigh that borderlines on a groan. "What does that mean, Nick?"

"Do you know how many resources would be needed to try and undo my work? Not just thousands, maybe millions of dollars — and the technology may not even be available."

This explanation doesn't impress anyone, interviewer or observer. "The tech wasn't available when you started. Lionel engineered it."

"And we piloted it on Cyrus."

Liu's taken aback for a moment. "Jesus, Nick."

He continues, unfazed. "But now you're apparently locking Lionel up, so I'm out a brilliant engineer. Unless S.H.I.E.L.D wants to fund me."

 _No._ Natasha would rather tell herself, _Not a chance in hell,_ but she knows better. She knows what's on the table before he does, and hates everything about it. The loathing turns a shred of her mind to Bruce, who said he'd consider designing his own gene therapy before he left yesterday. She doesn't hold anything against him here — this mad experiment's fallout is still the fault of Fray and Chimera Gen. She does wish, however, that she could order the council to wait on Bruce's decision. Give him some time. Let Fray rot a little in the meantime.

But they won't.

"And what if it did?" Liu proposes.

"It wouldn't." He concludes, not even interested in the thought. "Besides, I wouldn't do it."

"Why not?"

As though it's so simple, he shrugs. "Too risky."

"What are the risks? Death? That's already happening."

"Standard subjects and mosaics are at higher risk of developing degenerative symptoms — especially if injected with a mutation designed for a chimera — but we predicted that. That's not what I'm worried about."

Liu presses him. "What else is there?"

"Successful regression would be catastrophic for the original research."

In other words, he doesn't want his genius undone, even if it's by his own work.

Understandably, a murmur of disbelief hisses out of the agent in the room.

"Thousands of dollars down the drain. So much _progress_ wasted, and who knows how long we'd have to wait for it to be replicated by someone else. And then, in the meantime, the world keeps spinning, keeps repeating the same mistakes." He appeals to her like she's a judge.

To Natasha, it's clear that he hasn't learned anything, nor gained any regard for lives other than his own. It's likely he'll never grow. At least she can say differently about herself. At least she has that.

Simply, somberly, Liu tells him, "That's insane."

This fails to frazzle him. "Historically, people have always said that before a scientific milestone."

Liu tries to push a lost cause into sympathy. "You manipulated people in order to test on them with unregulated lab equipment that altered their genetics. People are developing cancer—"

" _Lenora_ developed cancer."

 _And that isn't a cause for concern, right?_ Natasha snaps at him within her head, thinking back to his aircraft, where he dubbed a Lena without powers worthless.  
Liu demands an answer for the council and the mutants remaining. "Will you help remediate or not?"

Unamused, he chews on the idea. "I'll think about it."

"That's not an option."

"What are you going to do to make me decide?" After only a beat of silence, Fray smirks to himself. "Exactly."

Too late, she threatens, "We'll take the offer off the table."

Natasha wishes.

"And take away the best chance at remediation? That's rather hypocritical."

 _They have better options than the bastard who did this to them._ Her thoughts say "them," yet her mind conjures a scene from weeks ago: the lab after Greenland, after the first encounter with Alma, Lena propped against a lab bench with Berhanu in a seat beside her. Nothing but pure distrust of Natasha and the Q-tip she brandished. Berhanu's laughter filling the room.

Inside the interrogation room, Liu shuffles her papers back together and stands. Her parting with Fray is straightforward. "You have 24 hours to decide."

Natasha seriously considers returning to her roots and assassinating him while he sleeps.

* * *

Her new phone buzzes in its pocket. When the screen illuminates, there's Lena's name attached to a text, _No hair new me? Lol_

Natasha pulls the message down to reveal a preview of a picture featuring a bald scalp and no eyebrows. About a month of treatment has claimed the bottle red locks that streamed down the young woman's back. The smile that peeks at her from the image preview holds no animosity or lament. This could've been much worse; Fray could've been tinkering with her biology again.

Stark Industries had offered some of their resources to assist in the research and creation of a rehabilitative therapy for the mutants. Out of the woodwork — or, rather, the plateaus of Mongolia — emerged Bruce Banner to offer his services as the principal investigator for the study. A few phone calls with Tony and Pepper, and Bruce's new base of operations would be Avengers Tower. Bruce had subsequently contacted Natasha for relocation support.

She doubts he needs her assistance with his grand total of possessions, but they did owe Lena a joint visit. Impatience and anticipation have driven the teen to call Natasha and ask when she would come. That brief conversation took place a little over a week ago. Thankfully, Bruce's decision came shortly thereafter.

That brought her here, to the organized rendezvous point. At the apex of the aircraft's ramp, she waits. Outfitted in civilian clothes with her hair back to curls, a thought wanders across her mind, wondering if the first thing he points out will be her latest shift in appearance.

Soon enough, her answer arrives. A petite taxi deposits him a few meters before the larger vessel and rumbles off after the driver pauses to gawk.

She holds her place as he walks up to meet her. Her greeting is easy. "Hey stranger."

The smile that's lived in her memories for a few weeks now appears in front of her. He waits until he's at her level to respond. "What'd I miss?"

Together they retreat into the small plane's belly, the ramp lifting shut in their wake.

"Liu's prepping for the first phase of remediation. They've got a bunch of kids on their radar right now." She relays to him, moving toward the pilot's seat. She tosses a backward glance just as he drops his bag onto one of several empty seats. "They're monitoring from a distance for the time being."

"Until I come up with a cure." Anxiety seizes his hands, which begin their habitual fidgeting.

"No pressure." Lighthearted as it sounds, she's not even sure of whether it's a joke or the reality of their situation.

They don't know the nature of risk posed to the mutated kids, if they should view their lives through a draining hourglass. Alma and Lena could be unlucky outcomes yet, with the majority of others showing no malignant symptoms. Last time she checked, Akira's physical health was fine — his ego, however, had yet to make a full recovery. Liu had assured Natasha that the other victims appeared alright. For now.

"How are you?" Bruce slides the question between her knots of contemplation. Both of them have yet to take a seat.

"Still laying low."  
He nods, rubs his palms together. "Sounds like things have been quiet for a change."

"For the most part." It's the calm before the storm. At least, that's how she views it. She has to in order to stay two steps ahead of everyone else.

The thought of others compels her to add to her previous statement, "Lena did call me last week."

Alarm shifts his brows up, then back down into a furrow. "Is everything alright?"

"She's just restless. Isolation isn't exactly her cup of tea."

"Not everyone is cut out for this style of living." He says, one secluded soul to another.

"Funny you should say that." She replies, and not because of their shared nature. Her arms uncross. One hand plunges into the pocket where she's stowed his surprise. She wouldn't call it a gift, since it's not something he'd ever ask for nor seek out.

She produces a Samsung Galaxy, the same model as hers with the same levels of imparted encryption. Since he won't take it voluntarily — she knows he won't — she crosses over to him and holds it a few centimeters above his hands.

"Mine still works fine." He insists, confused.

"It's a great antique." She counters.

"Thanks." For the sake of politeness, he says it and takes the device. She doesn't need gratitude, though. Someone needs to have a means of communicating with this man. Ever reluctant, he gently protests, "I don't...I don't need this th—"

"I know." If only he'd realize that she's already anticipated all his responses here. "But Lena wants to make a groupchat with the three of us."

It's an odd prospect for both of them, but it's the least they can do for someone who's now estranged from her family and the expired opportunities for her future.

He points out, "We're gonna be together in a day."

She gives him half a shrug. "Hey, I don't make the rules."

"Since when do you follow them?"

"When there's not a conflict of interest."

She turns and heads to her seat, her back to him so he doesn't see the smirk that's arisen. For all she's come to know about him, it seems he knows her the same. She could run from that — it's her first instinct to do so when someone gets near. Right now, be it out of intrigue or something else unnamed, she wants to linger a little longer.

Still turned away from him, she throws out, "It also doesn't hurt that she has cancer."

They settle into their seats, Bruce taking one to her left. With a few switches flipped and dials set, their vessel awakens with a hum.

"How is she doing?" He asks as the floor vibrates beneath their feet.

"She's weaker — lost a little weight." She pivots in her seat, unlocks her phone and opens the most recent text. With the picture displayed on the entire screen, she passes him her device. "Still her, though."

He teases her, holding onto her phone for a moment longer. "How come you got a picture?"

"Because I have a smartphone." _That isn't off 75 percent of the time._ She reclaims the contraption from his extended arm and uses it to gesture to his jacket pocket. "Now you do, too. Welcome to the modern day."

"I'm not that out of touch."

She doesn't even vocalize to call him out on that bullshit. Blatant dubiousness shifts her expression and she lets him see it.

"Maybe I am." He recovers, sheepish.

With that, she leaves him to set up his new tool and she turns her attention to bringing the plane into the sky.

"Buckle up, doc."

Over a year ago, threats and persuasion were the only methods to draw him out of his hiding. He wouldn't trust her — or anyone, really — to get on a giant aircraft, so she didn't tell him until it was too late.

This time around, she leads them as they become airborne and he doesn't clench, doesn't protest or try to run. He came to answer her call and trusts her lead. She wonders if he realizes that she's done the same.


End file.
